


now and then (there's a fool such as i)

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960, 1960s, Coming of Age, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Teen Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: John and Paul on their trip to Caversham, Berkshire. April, 1960.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i may be tempted to write a second part to this, set around the writing and recording of "i don't know (oh johnny, johnny)", which was never released but features so many horrible lines that will make you think "fuck, they were so young and so in love and everything is terrible". if you're not familiar with it: google.
> 
> this fic is more a character study, an exploration of john's mindset and the dynamic between him and paul. i am fond of kitchen-sink narratives so behold: normal people doing human things and misinterpreting each other and saying "what?" a lot. tone taken from john's own writing, any anachronisms are my own. i hope you like it.
> 
> just a warning: archive warnings really do apply for period typical internalized misogyny, sexism, homophobia, and so on.

As he stood at the roundabout at Forthlin road waiting for Paul to show, with his guitar on his back and a duffel bag of clothes by his feet, John couldn’t help grinning to himself. The passing drivers must have thought him a few quid short, but anticipation and excitement swelled too insistently within him. He caught the eyes of a gaggle of boys across the road, all of whom nudged each other and gestured rudely in his direction. John shot them the V’s and smirked as a woman in a car gasped at him.

Shuddering against the spring chill, John stuck his hand into the pockets of his jacket and peered up towards the bend. Paul really was taking his time. The trip had been impromptu, which really meant they’d been utterly bladdered one night and thought _why the fuck not, then._

They’d been holed up at the Jac, which Paul secretly loved although he vehemently pretended otherwise, clutching spiked cups of coffee, and laughing over some idiotic joke John had cracked. He’d looked at John, all flushed and giggly with caffeine and whiskey, and said, _We should. Go away for a bit, I mean._ And when John had shrugged with characteristic laziness and said, _Sure son, where to,_ Paul’s smile had been bright enough to make something twinge in John’s chest, just enough that he’d accidentally-on-purpose spilled some of his drink onto Paul’s drainies and lamented, _Whoops, clumsy lad!_ Only after Paul had stopped fussing like a bird and settled back down had John tipsily asked just _where_ precisely they’d be off to, jet setters that they were, and Paul had smiled shyly and suggested Berkshire. Something about a cousin and her husband. A pub. The image he’d conjured was so homely and innocent that Mimi had immediately flapped her tea towel at him and said, with a pleased smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, _Fresh air, John Lennon? You’ll go, or so help me._ On decree, it was decided.

To be honest, John wasn’t sure what caper they’d get up to. Cleaning tables? Washing dishes? He had a vague notion they’d be chopping wood or some other lark, although that might have been a picture he’d seen with Cyn on date night. Taking out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, John ducked his head against the wind and lit one. Exhaling a great puff of smoke, he lifted his head to see a familiar figure come meandering around the corner.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, John yelled, “McCartney! Hurry up, ye oaf!”

Paul waved indistinctly. John couldn’t see him properly until he’d crossed the road and was standing in front of him, slightly out of breath, giving John a bright grin.

“Alright,” he greeted, pushing a mop of windswept hair out of his big eyes. Paul adjusted the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder and gestured at the cigarette. “Got a spare one?”

“That’s all ye use me for,” John grumbled through his smoke. “Cigs and pints.”

“And birds,” Paul added, no doubt thinking of his latest (and only? Paul could be so bloody private, you’d think he was hiding some horrid secret underneath his dark jumpers and tight trousers) conquest, a local girl called Dot, whom Cynthia liked very much.

John winked at him and handed over a fresh cigarette. “Them too. Though this holiday is purely for masculine energies, young Paul.”

Waving away John’s wagging finger, Paul laughed and stuck his cig into the corner of his mouth. “Good timing,” he quipped as they started up towards the bus station. “I’ve been running low on reserves.”

“Did Dot suck ‘em out of you?”

Paul shoved his shoulder against John’s. “I’ll not have you talk about my woman that way, thanks very much.”

“Pity, because she’d stick it to you any day, or so I’ve been told.”

“Cyn, the goddess of gossip,” Paul griped. John laughed.

They fell easily into step with each other. They’d had a hazy plan to hitchhike, like Paul had with George, but they were too lazy to think that far ahead; at least, John had argued, they could sleep on a bus. A lightness had settled in his bones, making John feel as if the mess from the past few months was slipping away with each long lope they took. Even Liverpool, lovely, dirty Liverpool, with its grungy dockside pubs and hidden gems like the Jac, felt like a yawning crater. Broken teeth and blackened tongue, swallowing him like a leviathan from the deep. He looked sideways at Paul and felt a hidden thrill.

Looking for all the world as if he’d dressed with studied nonchalance, Paul was in an old woollen jumper and a leather jacket. His drainies were that tight because John had bullied him into them – _Who’d want to see a band in loose pants, lad? –_ although he’d be loath to admit he may have had ulterior motives at the time. As he shot Paul furtive looks between pulls on his cigarette, he noticed Paul’s hair looked softer without all that vaseline, his cheery gait buoyed by those long legs and sharp feet. Even the way he held the strap of his guitar case, his other hand occupied with his cigarette, seemed collected and neat. In comparison John felt positively homeless.

“What’re your folks like, then?” John asked suddenly. “Nice and normal?”

“They own a pub,” Paul pointed out with a wry look. “They’re hardly running the Ritz.”

Resisting the urge to tumble into an elaborate joke (“Oh, the _Ritz,_ is it? Excuse me, mister Fauntleroy, sir, forgive me, sir”) John chucked his cigarette away and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Yeah, but are they _normal._ D’they like music, is what I’m saying.”

Paul frowned in thought. They were nearing the station on the corner, buses rumbling out of the big building caked in soot, pedestrians hurrying along like ants. “Betty used to give me records. I think Mick used to be in a band,” he said. “Can’t remember, though. He might have a few cheeky stories to tell us.”

“Like the time he lost his false teeth in Lancaster?”

“Better,” Paul replied solemnly. “He found his legs in Dublin.”

“Getting back to his roots,” John said, and Paul nodded sagely and mused, “Smart man, smart man.”

“Good to know old ‘Soapy’ ended up in Berkshire.”

“His diamonds are nice and safe behind the counter,” Paul joked. John laughed, half surprised. That’d been the film they’d seen together with Dot and Cyn. He and Paul had fended off double date threats for what felt like weeks before Cyn had done something tricky with her tongue, and John said to Paul the next day, “Look, it’ll make the girls happy,” and so off they’d gone. John had spent some of the flick with his hand on Cynthia’s knee, and the rest of it hyper-aware of Paul pressed against his other side, Dot giggling as he whispered in her ear. Towards the last quarter of the film, John, feeling warm and somewhat randy, had accidently brushed Paul’s hip with his hand. He still remembered the way Paul had looked at him slowly in the gloom, as if it didn’t twig that his best friend was probably trying it on in the bleedin’ cinema and found him fuckin’ distracting besides.

John’s throat constricted at the mere memory. When they went into the main terminal, he nudged Paul and gestured over to the booth. “Look after me guitar. I’ll go get us tickets.”

Finishing off his cigarette in a particularly fetching way, Paul said, “Yeah, alright,” and John scarpered.

Taking the opportunity to calm down, he forced himself to wander across the crowded station. The building was long and low, the dull roar of buses clamouring with the sound of a hundred conversations. Gruesome people loomed in his peripheral vision. Babies squawked as bus horns blared. John jostled his lighter in his jacket pocket and elbowed his way up to the grilled counter, where a florid man in a blue cap eyed him with distaste. “Where to then?”

That Welsh accent was too funny to pass up. John leaned his elbows on the counter and said in his best imitation, “Oh, two to Caversham, dear man, if you don’t mind.”

The ticket seller gave a flat look, then started punching the keys on the register, which looked to John as if it hadn’t been updated since last century. The man grunted for a bit then named a price that made John stare.

“You’re having me on,” he started, fake accent dropped. “We’re only going to the ruddy _country.”_

“Watch yourself, son,” the seller warned. He repeated the price with that same cold look, then said, “Are you buying or not? There’s a queue, you know.”

“Sod your queue,” John snapped. He shoved away from the counter and stalked back through the crowd towards Paul. He was sitting on the bench, guitar case between his legs, tapping out a rhythm on the fastenings. Paul caught his eye and gave him a friendly smile.

“Got the tickets?” he asked.

“Better go by horse and cart,” John growled, hauling his case up on one shoulder, “a bleedin’ joke, is what it is.” He repeated the price of two tickets.

Paul’s eyes widened comically. John considered mocking him, just to let off steam, but settled for smoking irritably. Paul patted the pockets of his jacket and emerged with a handful of loose change. He peered at the coins, then up at John. “Right,” he said faintly.

John softened. “Come ‘ead,” he said. “We’ll go the old-fashioned way. Men on the road, that’s what we are, am I wrong?”

“Could be good song material.” Paul sounded dubious. He looked back at the ticket seller before getting to his feet, pulling on his rucksack and adjusting his guitar case over the top of it. With his too-short jumper, bulky leather jacket, and absurdly long legs, he reminded John of a backwards country and Western star, about to hit the dusty highway to his one true love.

Paul caught his eye casually. “We could always…”

John raised an eyebrow. “Mm. We could.”

Peering behind John, Paul bit absently on his bottom lip, searching the station. John pulled his eyes away and coolly turned in place. The pillars upon which the timetables were pinned were too far away for him to see, so he settled for eyeing off the bus-shaped blobs that were parked towards the back of the station, around which porters bustled and passengers gathered. Blowing out his lips, John looked back at Paul, who darted his eyes over John’s shoulder meaningfully, then started off through the crowd, grabbing the front of John’s jumper as he did so.

John followed obediently. Paul’s hand dropped from his front as they swam through a group of schoolgirls. John turning to watch them as they passed, saying, “Alright, girls?” Paul rolled his eyes and shoved a hand to his back to keep him moving.

Eventually they sidled up towards one of the buses. It had a sign that read READING up the front. The driver was behind the wheel, glued to his newspaper. John, suddenly finding the whole thing rather funny, whistled in the most comically insouciant way he could manage, scuffing his heels with his hands in his pockets. Throwing him a deadpan look, Paul ambled up to the open bus door.

Putting one foot on the bottom step, Paul said politely, “Does this go through Caversham, at all?”

The driver looked at them from over the top of his glasses. “Aye. Have your tickets?”

“I’m sorry. We lost them, see.” Paul, to his credit, sounded like a choir boy lost on his way home from church. “Me da called and booked them last week but I was in a hurry this morning and I forgot.” He paused, contrite. “I’m sorry, sir. My mistake.”

“That’s no good,” the driver replied, although John noticed his expression thawed the longer he looked at Paul’s innocent face. “He called ahead, did he?”

“Aye, sir,” John interjected. He bounded over and jostled Paul’s side, blinking up at the driver like an orphan. “This one’s soft between the ears, see. I did warn him, sir.”

“’Look after those tickets!’ he told me,” Paul agreed.

“And what did he do?”

Paul gestured to his head. “Hopeless, I am!”

“I see.” The driver looked between them. After a pause he rustled his paper and glanced in his rear view mirror, which reflected the large clock face that hung at the wide back wall. “Alright, lads. Up you come. No funny business, see.”

“Thanks, sir.” Paul smiled and started up the stairs before John elbowed him out of the way to get in first.

“Thanks ever so,” John gushed as he passed the driver.

They gambolled down the aisle towards the end of the bus. Already about a quarter of the seats were filled, mainly women and children on Easter holidays, with the occasional business man reading a paper. John swung his case into the overhead space, turned around to take Paul’s and shove it alongside, then threw himself into the window seat. Paul followed suit, reaching over to crack the window. A blast of sound from the station rushed in, the smell of exhaust fumes mingling with factory smoke. Lighting them both a cigarette, Paul handed one to John and settled back in his seat.

“A bloody genius, you are,” John told him contentedly.

Paul sighed. “I can’t help it, you know, it’s such a burden.”

After a few minutes of shifting to get comfortable, the engine rumbled into life. John looked out of the window as they started to pull out of the station. When the bus rolled past the ticket booth, John elbowed Paul to pay attention, then shot the V’s at the ticket seller, who stared at them in mute fury. They dissolved into laughter.

“Daylight robbery, that was,” John said, victoriously sucking on his cig.

“That’s why you’ve got me.” Paul fluttered his eyes at him, and John put his hand on Paul’s face and shoved it away.

The bus paused at the entrance of the terminal before hauling left. Liverpool started to slip by in a dreary blur, the same old shops looking drab from the perspective of two boys going south. They rolled past the Jac with its mysterious black front. Through the window, John thought he’d glimpsed a familiar dark figure, all slight wrists and James Dean cheekbones.

He leaned back in his seat and thought about Stu as he smoked. When the bus started roaring along on the road outside Liverpool, John flicked his cig out of the window, and crossed his arms over his chest to have a nap. The gentle rocking motion of the bus soon caught up with him. A confused sequence of thoughts deteriorated into focusing on the feeling of Paul’s arm beneath his cheek. The soft leather smelled worn and smoky, the scent of Paul’s cheap soap and the shampoo he shared with his father and brother familiar and comforting. John buried further into Paul’s side, letting himself slip further away with each bump on the road.

John surfaced sometime later. His cheek was red and hot from pressing against leather, and his mouth tasted dry after the last cigarette. Yawning hard enough to crack his jaw, John struggled upright in his seat. He pulled out his glasses to better focus on the passing scenery. Instead of bleak buildings and dirty roads there were flat, grey fields. The weather had turned from blue spring to maudlin mid-afternoon bluster, weighty clouds on the horizon threatening rain.

Rubbing at one eye, John looked over at Paul. He had a small magazine in his lap and was reading quietly, legs crossed in that slightly effeminate way John always found uncomfortably arousing. When Paul felt the weight of John’s sleepy gaze, he turned away from his magazine to smile at him. The pale light coming in from the window illuminated his clear skin, the smooth planes of his face, those dark eyebrows that arched in pleasant surprise.

“Back from the land of the dead?” he joked, his voice low.

Licking his lips, John blinked at him. “I hope I snored in your ear.”

“George is the snorer,” Paul replied, going back to his magazine. “You drool.”

“Glad you noticed; I’ve been practising.” Vague images flicked through his mind before John cleared his throat. “What’re you readin’?”

Paul wordlessly held up his music magazine.

 “Christ, why’d you bother with that rubbish?” John had a rule that essentially boiled down to listening _only_ to the music, to better absorb its message, the way it was constructed, the hidden meaning of the beat and vocals. Never mind all that teen rag jack blathering about _style_ and _pep,_ like those things could ever be measured properly. Paul, however, was something of a musical sycophant (so John had told him unmercifully on several occasions), and ate all of it up. He was frowning now as he flicked a page over.

“We’re a band, aren’t we,” Paul said. “It only makes sense to keep ahead of everything.”

“Of the industry,” John elaborated facetiously, but Paul only nodded. John snorted in dismissal. “Yeah, well, we can be part of the industry when we get more gigs.”

“Speaking of.” Paul put his magazine properly and gave John his attention. “I’ve an idea about our set. If we keep opening with our standard stuff, why don’t we do a middle bit just of our songs –“

“All five hundred of ‘em.”

“Yeah – and then we’ll keep our end with _Twist and Shout_ or whatever, but if we sort of sandwich our stuff between the classics, our songs can be more integrated.”

“Yeah,” John said, impressed. “That could work.”

Paul smirked at him. “Don’t sound so surprised. I can think for meself sometimes.”

John shoved him. “I have to be surprised, otherwise your head’d be three times the size. I’ll ask Stu when we get back. Got a cig?”

Lapsing into silence, Paul handed him a cigarette. It was only his somewhat resentful expression that made John go, “What’s crawled up yours?”

“Nothing,” Paul lied. He knew Paul was lying because he got a little divot in the middle of his brows, as if he were thinking very sternly about being light and pleasant and not at all difficult. Paul watched John light his cigarette before saying, “D’you want to give this a read? It’s really not that bad.”

“God no.” John tapped some ash into the pocket of the seat in front of him. “’Sides,” he gave Paul a mock helpless look, “I can’t read.”

“What a bloody lie,” Paul scoffed, his mood passing over as he grinned at John. “I’ve seen your books at Mendips. No wonder you need those coke bottles strapped to your face.”

“No, son, it’s true. I can barely write. It’s a wonder I can speak, really. I just used to grunt.”

Paul bit his lip to hold back a laugh. “Mm, that’s why you’re at the institute. They let any old riff-raff in these days.”

“If I’m the riff, are you the raff?”

“Only according to Mimi,” Paul quipped. John let out a short bark of laughter. “That should be our band name. ‘Riff and Raff’.”

“S’actually not bad,” John said, still laughing. He smoked his cigarette with quick pulls, letting the smoke drift up through the window. “Certainly better than ‘The Silver Beetles’.”

“I thought that was Stu’s idea.” If John knew better, he’d say there was an undercurrent in Paul’s tone.

“Aye, and I said, ‘What about _Beat_ les,’ you know, like the sound, and he reckoned it wasn’t flashy enough.”

“We’re not a flashy band,” Paul objected.

John shrugged. “The ‘Silver’ is supposed to get us through the door.”

“Out the back door, maybe.”

Shooting him a sideways look, John considered tackling the Stuart thing head-on, then and there. But at the end of the day Paul’s comments were relatively benign. They’d amped up in recent weeks, sure, ever since Stu had joined the band at the beginning of the year, but they weren’t anything John couldn’t diffuse without a well-timed gag. The cold expression on Paul’s face whenever John and Stu showed up together made his stomach twist. Paul gave them these _looks_ beneath the fringe of his long, dark lashes, like cuts of coal on snow, his mouth pursing and his head tilting up and away as he nonchalantly peeled off a chord none of them had heard before. Those sixty-five pounds of Stu’s couldn’t buy what Paul had; John knew it, deep down, as sure as he had blood in his veins. But Stu was his _mate,_ one of the few who liked a natter about art or whatever shite, and he was one of the nicest looking boys John had ever seen; which he could only now admit after a handful, no pun intended, of nights ruminating on Stu’s pale fey face. It was slightly ironic that Stu was the golden-haired mess and Paul the dark horse, tall and lean and cool, his fingers tripping effortlessly up the neck of his guitar, watching John across the stage with a casualness that made John’s skin run hot.

It was ironic, and _unfair,_ and he wondered to God why Cyn only appeared on the periphery of all this madness when she should be at the centre of it, preferably on her knees, worshiping the fuckin’ ground he walked on and keeping his head on straight.

Feeling a taciturn mood coming on, John finished his cig and threw it out the window, slumping down in his seat. Paul let him wallow for a while, clearly picking up on a vibe, before he nudged his knee to John’s. When John looked over Paul jerked his chin towards the front of the bus.

They were slowing, the bus pulling into a stop at some nameless town. John thought vaguely they were about twenty miles from Liverpool, but he didn’t know how long they’d been on the bus.

“Fresh air?” Paul asked, and John nodded. When the bus parked outside a grocer’s they got up and shoved their way to the front, Paul apologizing for everyone they cut off, John barging by without a word. The hit of cool air was ambrosia after the stuffiness of the bus and John breathed in greedily. Bumping Paul’s shoulder, he motioned with his head, and they started wandering up the street. Having a kip made him feel much better, the pleasant stretch in his legs mingling with the growing realization that they were _out of Liverpool._ Here they were, in some town they didn’t know, just them and their guitars, and John was suddenly so elated he threw an arm around Paul’s shoulders and tugged him close.

Paul grinned and grabbed John’s upper arm, his long-fingered hand pale on black leather. “You’re like a dog,” he observed. John stopped in the middle of the street to howl loudly. Smothering laughter, Paul clapped a palm over John’s mouth as the few people out and about stared at them both.

“I should get you a muzzle,” Paul said lowly.

John growled against Paul’s hand and, true to form, licked him. Paul, the bastard, didn’t even yelp: he merely pulled his hand away and wiped it on the front of John’s jumper, his eyes canting upwards to meet John’s gaze, grinning cheekily. John’s breath caught in his throat.

“M’starving,” he blurted. Casually looking about them, John spotted a café across the way. “Cuppa and a buttie?”

“Please,” Paul sighed happily, and John had to concentrate on all the things that _didn’t_ remind him of.

Together they tagged off to the café, which was cramped with steamed up windows and an old hag of a waitress whom John mocked viciously. The tea was weak and the bread getting old from that morning, but they sat and larked about until Paul noticed people were getting back on the bus. The cool air had settled into the afternoon, dark clouds rolling in more steadily now, enough that John rubbed Paul’s arms as they walked to warm him up. When they clambered back on the bus it looked very close to raining. Paul said, “We’ll be walking in the mud up to the pub, I’d say.”

“Mud?” John had pulled his jacket off and was wearing it like a blanket, stretching his legs out underneath the seat in front of him. He must have sounded aghast because Paul gave him a confused smile. “We’re not going to Paris, y’know. It’s _Berkshire._ It’s in the country.”

“I know that,” John retorted. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “We’ll go to Paris, though.”

“Is that next on the list?” Something had made Paul’s cheeks go a bit pink.

John looked away and laughed loudly. “’Course it is, daft lad. What, one trip and I’m sick of ye? Not likely.” Then he flushed, because saying even this was confusing and it sent a thrill through his system, so he jostled Paul into getting comfortable. “Siddown, would ye,” he complained, “it’s time for a kip.”

“Good boy,” Paul commented, patting John’s head as if he really were a dog.

John opened one eye. “I bite.”

After a beat, Paul said daringly, “I’d hope so.”

Recovering as best he could, he quipped in a falsetto, “Oh, darling, wait until later!”

“How can I?” Putting on a breathy voice, Paul batted his eyes at him and clutched his hands beneath his chin. “You’re just so _gear_ , Johnny.”

“Right, that’s enough of those teen rags,” John said gruffly. He made a show of taking out an arm from beneath his jacket to grab at Paul’s magazine.

“No!” Seizing John’s outstretched hand and laughing, Paul shoved him away. “Don’t you dare.”

“Well stop sounding like a bloody _girl,_ then,” John objected, letting Paul manhandle him for a bit longer before he pulled away, grinning. “Honestly, McCartney, you’re a terror.”

“At last, someone’s noticed.” They shared a warm glance as the bus started up. When they were pulling away again, off on the second leg of their journey, Paul fidgeted for a bit before getting up to rummage in his rucksack.

From this angle John could look at the taut muscle of Paul’s thighs, the silver of skin that was revealed as he stretched up. Only Paul’s mouth was visible, biting on his lower lip with those white teeth, the front one crooked endearingly, his cheeks still a little pink. _Well,_ John rationalized clumsily, it was warm on the bus. Cold outside, and all that. He pretended to start napping as Paul lowered his arms. When Paul shrugged off his leather jacket – an action John had seen him do a _thousand fuckin’ times –_ he glanced down at John in a manner that suggested he wondered if John was looking (which he wasn’t, at all). Eventually Paul stopped faffing about and sat back down, swaying a little with the motion of the bus, a new book in hand.

John couldn’t see the cover from where he’d slumped, but he could watch Paul open it deftly, his eyes skimming the page to find his spot. He read with an avid concentration that reminded John that Paul was rather good at that poncy school of his, friendly with the teachers and his peers, likely the bloke who’d get all the girl’s hearts fluttering with his earnest nature and charming smiles. And Paul _was_ charming; you’d have to be blind not to notice. It was evident in the way he’d look up at waitresses, all big eyes and eyebrows, saying, _Ta, love,_ without a jot of nerves. John, who found it easier to berate women until they paid attention to him, usually found himself studying Paul when he was like that: leaning over the counter to get a barmaid’s attention, waving to Mimi as he came up the path, the tenderness with which he touched Dot’s back when they went into the cinema. John had wondered what Paul’s hand would feel like on his lower back, or on the dip of his waist. But the corresponding bolt of panic made him hot and flustered, his skin tight and movements jagged as he sought out a club, his guitar, Cynthia.

Music and grog and sex: they could purge; they were pure.

Too keyed up to sleep, John tried to lose himself in the passing scenery. Even that after a while got boring, his thoughts returning to Paul’s expression when he’d said _I’d hope so._ Contemplating the line between banter and truth was useless; here he be, John fuckin’ Lennon, ringleader of misinterpretation and wily imagination. He straightened in his seat and sighed loudly enough to draw Paul’s attention.

Watching at John with that guileless expression, Paul said, “What’s wrong now?”

“Pass us me journal, would you.” John thumped the underside of the seat in front of him, his legs all restless. As Paul grumbled but got out of his seat to retrieve John’s duffel, he said, “How far is it, anyroad?”

Neither of them could be bothered to wear a watch. Paul wrinkled his nose in thought. He tugged out a battered art journal and raised it with a questioning look. John held out his hand and said, “Ta, son.” Paul sat back down. “A couple more hours,” he guessed. “Three?”

John, who foggily recollected meeting Paul around midday, shrugged. He flipped open his journal. Stu had been laughingly incredulous when he’d mentioned going away with Paul. _Finals are soon,_ he’d said, as if John gave a toss either way. It was alright for Stu: the bastard could drop some paint on a canvas and their teachers would swoon. John’s fiddly caricatures were considered gauche, _juvenile,_ one teacher had sniffed, looking down at his cripples and orphans in distaste. He’d not spared a second thought on bleedin’ _finals._ His goal of securing a permanent Saturday night spot at the Cavern occupied most of his free time, much to Mimi’s endless exasperation.

He hadn’t realized Paul was watching him flick through the pages until a voice close to his ear murmured, “They’re good, John.”

The back of John’s neck prickled. “They’re shite,” he managed. “Look.” He stabbed a finger at a particularly gruesome man with an enormous nose. “Stupid.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Paul gently turned a few more pages. He laughed softly when he found a doodle of a boy standing behind an enormous guitar. “Is that George?”

John grinned at the drawing. “Aye. Pretty spot on, I’ll say that much. He looks like he’s hoisting the Bismarck.”

“That one’s good.” He’d found one of a frankly anatomically dubious girl, complete with bouffant hair and pouting lips. “Bardot,” Paul teased.

“Be still me beating heart,” John sighed, stroking the girl’s bosom. He turned a few more pages before he caught a glimpse of a portrait in the corner that one no one could see, ever, so he quickly snapped the journal shut. At Paul’s quizzical look, John explained, “They get stupider from there.”

Shrugging, Paul settled back with his book. “Whatever. I think they’re good. I don’t know anything about art and that, though.”

“Not much to it,” John said, “stick some fancy words in there and pretend it’s about God and people think you’re the next Cezanne.”

At Paul’s embarrassed smile, John said sarcastically, “I forgot: you’re the soft one. Cezanne was a bloke –“

“Alright, alright.” Rolling his eyes, Paul opened his book again. “I forgot: you’re the _brainy_ one.”

“An’ don’t forget it,” John warned. As Paul resumed reading, he shifted a little to open his journal privately. John started doodling with the pencil nub he kept wedged at the back, silly shite, like big buses running down old ladies and a pair of familiar girly eyes on a dog. He scribbled out an especially wonky depiction of a random girl before he started a proper drawing. This one took him a while to get right, his tongue stuck out in concentration. He thought about the few lessons he could remember, about shading and all that, and tried to get the hair to fall properly. Trouble was, Paul had had a haircut a week ago, so it wasn’t as floppy as it used to be. John had fallen about when Paul turned up to practice, sullen and miserable, griping about his Dad and a pair of kitchen scissors. John had sought to inspect Paul’s hair for himself, which really meant he’d blatantly run his hands through that soft, dark hair and felt the stubble at the nape of Paul’s neck. Paul had shivered at his touch, squirming away when John used his fingernails, complaining about his cold hands, grinning nervously as they others teased them.

The bus lurched and Paul pushed into his side. Startled, John closed his journal and met Paul’s gaze.

“Not long now,” Paul said casually. He pointed out the window as a blurry sign passed by. When John shrugged, Paul gave him a knowing look. He maintained composure for a full minute before making a fuss about putting his glasses back on, muttering about _gits in gogs_ and _mother hen McCartney._ Paul just shook his head during the whole production, and when John scowled at him from behind his Buddy Holly glasses, he said, “There’s a lad.”

Sticking his tongue out was better than the alternative, which in John’s mind was a confused mix of flirtatious banter and something else, something weird and physical. Shifting focus, John said loudly, “What’s this pub like, then. You’ve kept me in mystery all this time. Luring me out into the country to have your wicked way with me.”

“The only wicked one here is you,” Paul said. “It’s fine, really. Been there a couple of times, mainly when –“

 _Mary._ John’s own dead mother swam to the forefront of his mind, a cloud of copper hair and red lipstick. Paul had paused awkwardly, but forged on with a renewed lightness in his tone.

“Dad writes to them sometimes, I think. Me cousin’s name is Betty and her husband’s called Mike. I don’t remember much about them, but they were alright about us coming down, so.” Paul shrugged, a little pink in the cheeks.

“Ah, they’ll learn to put up with me,” John joked.

Paul pointed a finger at him. “You behave. I was about eight last time I was here, so God knows what they’re expecting.” When the light came into John’s eyes, he widened his own. “And _no,_ John. No harebrained schemes. Not for the first night, anyway,” he relented.

John sighed dramatically. “Well alright, only ‘cause you asked so nicely, McCartney.”

Paul was in the middle of shooting him a smirk when the bus turned around a corner. He caught himself by putting a hand out on John’s thigh, and John grabbed Paul’s upper arm to steady him. The other passengers swayed accordingly, muttering to each other when the bus started going straight again.

“Alright?” John asked, then peered over the seats towards the front. “We must almost be there. I feel as if we’ve been on the road for forty days and nights.”

“And no beer in sight,” Paul lamented. He thought about it for a moment. “Well, soon, anyroad.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

They journeyed for another forty minutes or so. The sky outside was still blustery, only growing dark by the time they passed the outskirts of Reading and started trundling up the hedge-lined road towards Caversham. John, who’d been nursed and weaned on Liverpool, watched the emergence of the quintessential country town with interest. The people were so _ordinary:_ coming home from work, clutching baskets of groceries or what have you, some with children or dogs running by their side. There were _sheep_ in one field, all clustered beneath an enormous spreading tree. It was like another world. Buildings were shorter, some with thatched tops, more often made of white-washed brick with picturesque flower boxes outside. The bus rolled through into the main square, which had a war memorial and a green common. A river was on their far right, and on the other side of the bridge the town lights were beginning to wink on. When the bus came to a stop Paul got up and handed John his duffel, into which he stuffed his stupid journal. With guitars on backs and a newfound excitement at their adventure, John and Paul emerged into quiet Caversham. The late afternoon sun peered through despondent clouds as a distant rumble signalled the arrival of rain.

They caught each other’s eyes and grinned.

“I’d forgotten all this,” Paul enthused as they began to walk. The air was sweet with pollen, and when the wind blew off the river there was the smell of river weed and damp wood. This was miles away from Liverpool’s choked skies and sooty people. They’d emerged into a strange life where people nodded to each other on the street and said hullo and did farm-y things like grow vegetables voluntarily.

“This is fuckin’ bizarre,” John admitted. Paul only laughed.

Gagging for a smoke, John lit them both a cigarette. They smoked companionably as they walked through the square and over the bridge, glad for the excuse to stretch their legs. John sung quietly under his breath, some old song his uncle used to play on the turntable when he was small, occasionally brushing Paul’s side. When the road widened, the buildings growing larger and slightly more industrious, they spied a modest pub on the corner. The sign hanging outside read _The Fox & Hounds. _Warm light illuminated the windows from within. It mustn’t have quite been time to open, as when they chucked their cigs away and Paul opened the front door, no one was in the bar.

The place was small and homely, a big fireplace up the end of the main sitting room, the tables scrubbed clean. A variety of liquor – which John expertly scanned – was housed behind the counter, most of it bog-standard whiskey or a lively scotch number. The beer taps gleamed, the chalkboard was kept neat, and in the background he heard the clatter of a kitchen.

“Betty?” Paul called, coming further into the pub and leaning against the counter. “Mike?”

Another clatter pre-empted the emergence of a large man from the back, wiping his hands on a tea towel, looking alarmingly like Paul’s own father despite the fact they weren’t even related. He exclaimed when he clapped eyes on Paul. Hurrying around the side of the counter, he held out a hand for Paul to shake.

“Good to see you, lad! You arrived alright, then? Who’s this?” Mike descended on John, who smiled awkwardly and shook his outstretched hand. Mike clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and said, “Hello, there, son.”

“I’m John,” he said. Glancing at Paul, John amended, “Lennon.”

“Lemon, eh? Interesting name.” Before John could retort, Mike winked at him. He turned back to Paul and beamed. “Very glad you’re here. How was the trip? Ah, before you get into it – _Betty.”_ The bellow was positively deafening. John raised his eyebrows at Paul when Mike wasn’t looking. Paul smothered a laugh, turning it into a hurried cough when a tall woman came through a side door.

He immediately noticed how similar she looked to Paul. Betty was middle-aged, dark-haired and slender, with expressive eyes and those same thin eyebrows. Her face was smooth and quite attractive – which he could admit, being the randy bastard he was. John would be forgiven in thinking they were more than cousins: she had the same bow lips, that quizzical but polite smile, even the way she tilted her head shadowed Paul in every respect.

“Paul!” Betty enveloped her cousin in a hug. Paul, to his credit, held her just as closely, and conceded to her smoothing back his hair when their embrace broke. “You look so much like Mary,” she said fondly.

John’s eyes shot to Paul. He looked a little taken aback but there was an obvious strand of pleasure in his voice when he said, “Oh, thanks.”

“This here’s John Lennon,” Mike introduced, with one hand on John’s shoulder. “Handsome lad, isn’t he.”

John stared at Mike for a solid moment before looking at Betty. “I’m John,” he repeated, “the handsome one.”

Betty laughed and Paul smiled warmly. “It’s good to meet you, John,” she said, shaking his hand. “I hope you’ll like it here. How was the ride down?”

“Fine, really,” Paul replied. “We stopped off at –“ He looked at John, “where was it?”

“Blow if I know,” John said awkwardly, censoring himself at the last moment.

Making a face at him, Paul turned back to his cousin. “Anyroad, we’re here and in one piece. Could do with some food, though, if it’s not too early.”

“All we had was a ham buttie,” John supplied, deadpan. “It was served to us by a hag.”

“How adventurous,” Betty said wryly. “Supper won’t be long. If you boys want to go up and get settled, come back when you’ve washed your hands and it’ll be ready.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, ever polite. They gathered their things and followed Mike down a corridor, which lead up a flight of stairs to Robbins’ living area. John expected to be let into one of the rooms branching off the landing, but Mike went up another flight of stairs. Down another hall they went until he opened a door, and, having talked all the way up about nothing in particular, broke off to say, “Here you are, lads.”

The attic was long and cramped and altogether too small for two near-grown blokes. The wooden floorboards were all gnarled, as if they’d been there back when the building was a farmhouse, and the roof was steep and met at a point. There was a squat window in the far wall that looked out onto the back courtyard, where there was the W.C. outbuilding for pub patrons. Around the stacked crates and a few boxes of bits and bobs, crammed in a corner, was a single bed. It looked smaller than Paul’s bed at home, if that were even possible. John skin prickled when he realized they’d have to sleep awfully close to be comfortable.

“Looks grand, Mike,” Paul was saying. He put down his guitar and took off his rucksack. John did the same then went over to the window and opened it. Outside twilight was falling, the smell of flowers heady in the spring air. He tapped out a cigarette and leaned on the windowsill. “Thanks, Mike,” he chorused over his shoulder.

“Come down when you’re ready,” Mike said expansively. “I’ll have tea done soon.” He backed out of the room and closed the door.

Alone at last, John caught Paul’s eye. He grinned crookedly and sauntered over to where John was. Pulling off his leather jacket and tossing it on the bed, Paul put his hands in the pockets of his drainies and leaned against the wall beside the window. “Not bad, this,” he said lowly.

John looked up at his dark eyes. He smiled, slow like, and murmured, “Nah. Not bad at all.”

They held eye contact for a moment longer before Paul smirked, gesturing at John’s unlit cig. “Light me one.”

“Bossy,” John admonished. Taking out another cigarette, he put them both in his mouth and patted his pockets for his lighter. Paul produced one and came close, resting his hand on John’s wrist, catching the spark. John inhaled deeply to ignite them. He met Paul’s gaze. His eyes were serious but there was a warm smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he bit his lip as he gently took a cigarette from John’s mouth. When his lips touched the same place that John’s had, John inhaled sharply.

“Thanks,” Paul murmured. He leaned back against the wall again, holding his cigarette in an almost thoughtful way.

John, who smoked as if every cig would be his last, straightened up. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, he watched Paul with half-closed eyes. The sounds of people coming into the pub filtered up through the floorboards, that and the sound of cooking, and a dog barking somewhere outside the window. Their closeness seemed more intense in the growing dark, like they were outside a gig or a pub in Liverpool, their bodies subconscious angled towards each other in the way John never did with Cyn or any other girl, for that matter. John tore himself away to study the courtyard. It was private and enclosed, the sort of place he’d take a bird if he had one. John took his cigarette from his mouth and blew a series of smoke rings.

Paul lifted his cigarette hand and, closing one eye, aimed to dissolve each ring. He grinned at John through the haze. The action was teasing and lazy, composed of a sort of languid warmth that always made John want to curl closer, across bars and stages, living rooms and bedrooms, just so he could touch that mouth with his –

He shuddered abruptly. Paul’s grin faded. “Someone step on your grave?” he asked.

“Somethin’ like,” John replied. They continued to watch each other smoke until Mike called up the stairs. Opening the window further, they chucked their cigs out into the courtyard. The orange ends bloomed for a while in the dim light before vanishing. John took off his own leather jacket and dumped it on the bed beside Paul’s, following him out of the room.

Without the jacket, Paul’s waist was sharp, accentuated by the cling of that fucking awful black jumper. His arse was pert in those dark drainies, tighter now that John had the time to watch the way Paul moved in them.

 _Christ,_ he thought in a panic. _This is gonna be fuckin’ torture._

Supper was a quiet affair. Mike had returned to the bar to serve the first patrons of the night, so Betty sat and ate with them in their second-floor dining room-cum-kitchen. They made light conversation about Paul’s family, who Betty hadn’t seen since Mary’s funeral.

“And how is your brother?” Betty asked over the steak and chips (“Local beef,” she explained to John proudly). John had the impression that Betty was kind of taken with Paul’s younger brother, Mike, probably because he had the same name as her husband.

“Oh, you know.” Paul tried to smile over the table, “’a brother’. He turned sixteen in January. He wanted to go to Butlins or something, but we had a party at home instead.”

John thought Mike was a rotten little bastard, prone to sneaking around with that bleedin’ camera of his, tagging around Paul with those calf eyes, _Please, Paul, let me watch ye play._ Paul, o’course, hated the whole idea, and begged off with increasingly elaborate excuses. Last time John had come ‘round to practice, Paul told Mike that John had an infectious disease that repelled girls. Mike had looked at John in alarm, who’d promptly started to limp along the corridor in imitation of a leper, groaning and so forth, “I want to suck your blood!” Only afterwards, when Paul had stopped laughing and Mike had fled, did Paul say, “That’s _Dracula,_ you tosser,” and John shrugged and said, “It got rid of the foetus, didn’t it?” All of that was probably a result of John’s aversion to other people’s siblings. They were unknown entities, understood by him to only be sources of irritation. Paul had tried for all of five minutes to defend the existence of his brother before he huffed and said reluctantly, “He can be quite annoying,” and he’d looked so put out about it that John had gone on for days.

“Your trouble,” he told Paul, “is that you’re too fuckin’ nice. You want to believe the best in everyone.”

“That’s not such a bad thing.” Paul was strumming his guitar and blinking at John with those big eyes. “There’s no real point in being sad and angry all the time. I’d rather look at the positives.”

John drew his sustenance from being sad and angry. Which was possibly why the genuine kindness shown by Mike and Betty made him feel a little awkward. When Betty was clearing the table, she asked John if he needed to ring home.

“Whatever for?” he asked, mystified.

She took his plate and stacked it on top of the others. “To let them know you’ve arrived?” she suggested in that wry tone that so reminded him of Paul.

When he and Paul were clattering down the stairs to help Mike or something, John caught Paul’s arm to make him stop. They paused in the middle of the stairs, the happy clamour of the pub drifting up to meet them. “She’s not serious,” John asked, “is she? About calling Mimi?”

Paul made a face and shrugged. “Dunno. If you weren’t going to, I wouldn’t bother. Betty doesn’t have any kids; I don’t think she knows what it’s like. This,” he gestured between them, “is probably a novelty.” Thinking for a moment, he added, “Well, _you’re_ a novelty.”

“Cheeky.” John barged past Paul and grinned over his shoulder. “I would have only pretended to call, anyway.”

He shoved his way into the pub and behind the counter. The lights were low and warm, making the place seem smaller than it really was, but cosy in a way that made you want to slump in a corner, drinking and making happy conversation, which John supposed was the whole point. Mike, as it turned out, practically ran the place single-handedly.

“If you boys want to take the money and pull pints,” he said, moving past with an enormous tray of empty glasses, “you’d be more than welcome.”

John stood there like a lemming before turning to look at the patrons. They gazed back at him, human equivalents of cows chewing cud. He assumed they were farmers and the like, if their lumpy jumpers and overalls meant anything, with their rough hands, red cheeks, and watchful expressions. Throwing a glance at Paul, he went and planted his hands on the counter. “What’ll it be, lads?”

A man who’d made his way to the counter mumbled, “Pint o’Guinness,” and squashed himself into a bar stool. John nodded importantly. “Righto, sir, comin’ right up.”

He’d been to enough pubs to know how to pull a drink; this was going to be a piece of piss. John confidently picked up a glass and meandered over to the taps. It was all rather glitzy on this side of the wood: they all had names like _Draftsmans Ale,_ the sort of southern shite he’d never be caught dead drinking if he were back in Liverpool. The Guinness was hidden right up the end by the cash register. John stuck the glass underneath the tap and gave it a good pull.

Beer immediately spurted out and off the glass, splattering the front of his red jumper. Swearing like a sailor, John let go and leaped back. The men were chuckling into their drinks, shaking their heads, saying, “First night, eh, son?”

“Alright, alright,” John grinned good-naturedly. He found a cloth on the bench and mopped his front, then put the glass back in place and pulled the tap again. Dark beer flooded into the glass at a rapid rate. He had just caught a man’s eye and was giving him a smug look when Guinness flowed over his hand. “Fuckin’ hell!” John whipped his hand away, beer going everywhere, and scowled at the pint.

Heedless of the men’s laughter, Paul materialized by his side. He’d found a black apron to wear, which should have looked daft but only made him look the part. He grinned cheekily. “Need a hand?”

“Bugger off,” John grumbled, wiping his hand on the front of his drainies. Jesus, Mimi was going to thrash him; she already reckoned he was an alcoholic. Shaking off residual drink, he shot Paul an exasperated look. “Don’t ever let me drop out of school to be a barman.”

“Well, I won’t now. Here.” He moved closer and stuck a new glass under the tap. In a fluid motion he pulled the tap, watching the Guinness flow, before letting go at the last moment. The drink was good and dark, and John found himself groaning, “I’d do anything for a pint of me own.”

Laughing, Paul handed the glass over to the waiting man and took his money. He passed close behind John to get to the register, teasing, “Soon enough, Johnny boy.”

John elbowed Paul and managed to wipe his damp hand all over the back of Paul’s jumper. “I’ll stick me head under the tap,” he warned, just as Paul laughed and tried to wriggle away from John’s grasping hands.

“Harassment, help!”

“Fire!” John cried in a falsetto. “Murder!”

“Boys,” Mike said, rolling up. They straightened and tried their best to look contrite. John was about to do his _sorry, sir, never again_ routine when Paul stood on his foot and said sheepishly, “Sorry, Mike. John’s getting excited.”

John nodded sadly. “I’ve not been walked yet.”

“Get on with it,” Mike said, all gruff and fond. He picked up the cloth John had chucked away and handed it back to him. “You clear tables. Paul can stay behind bar.” Shaking his head, Mike turned away to serve a customer, mumbling something about _larking about._

John grabbed Paul’s shoulder and leaned over to whisper hoarsely, “Be a good barmaid, Paulie,” before he stuck his tongue in his ear and shoved off. Paul managed to whack him on the back with a towel. Turning around to walk backwards, John tutted and waggled his finger at Paul’s grinning face. When he looked back, he nearly collided with Mike’s large bulk. As Mike raised his eyebrows, John beamed and skirted around behind the bar, saying, “Whoops a daisy, silly old me.”

Clearing tables wasn’t nearly as fun as he’d reckoned. He’d much rather be the one finishing the drinks, not loading them on trays, but he got into the swing of it well enough, making quips with the locals, “Alright, are ye?” and succeeding in pinching Paul every time he sailed past. As the evening rolled on, Paul kept catching his gaze across the pub, his eyes warm and secretive, his cheeks getting steadily pinker each time John escaped from behind the bar unscathed. When he’d pinched Paul on the arse and nearly made him drop a stout and lemon on a group of old men, Mike collared him into doing the dishes. Being sequestered away in the kitchen was a lonesome task, one John tried to make light of by sagging off and working as slowly as humanly possible.

Towards ten, when the sky outside the windows was dark and the conversation in the pub had slowed to a murmur, Paul came in to visit. He’d pushed up the arms of his jumper, exposing surprisingly muscular forearms, and his hair was a bit sweaty and curling on his forehead. John grinned at him and flicked water in his direction.

Dodging the attack, Paul shook his head. “Never mind a muzzle, I reckon you need locking up.”

“So I have been told, son,” John lamented. He was elbows deep in soapy water. “I tell them I’m a menace, but they keep lettin’ me go. D’ye think it’s me good nature?”

“Just the handsome face,” Paul said sweetly, crossing his arms and leaning one hip on the side of the sink. He was watching John wash up, thankfully missing the way John’s ugly mug burned. Paul absent-mindedly kicked one foot against the wall behind him. “I was talking to Mike: they do music here on the weekends. He’s game for us to play a set. I said yeah, of course.”

“That’d be gear,” John replied, deadpan. Paul wrinkled his nose and aimed his next kick at John’s shin. Ignoring his plaintive cries, Paul continued, “And there’s a dance on tomorrow night. It’s some local thing at the hall. Want to go?”

John snorted. “That’d be shite. A gaggle of country birds, too scared to let ye twist too close.” He accidently-on-purpose splashed some water onto Paul’s trousers before pulling the plug. Casually, he said, “D’ye want to find some girls to go with?”

“Sure,” Paul said after a beat. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but then he added lightly, “Want a smoke? Mike said we’re about done for tonight.”

“Whaddya take me for.” John waved his wet arms in Paul’s direction, covering him with residual suds. He wiped himself off with a tea towel, then lead the way out the back into the courtyard.

The afternoon chill had given way to a humid evening, the spring air hazy with pollen, clouds obscuring the light of the moon. A degree of electricity made the hair on John’s forearms stand up, as if a storm were just on the horizon. The door swung closed behind Paul, plunging them into a warm gloom alleviated only by the yellow light coming in through the kitchen window. John found his cigarettes and lit them, wandering towards the W.C. as he did so. The brick wall he leaned against was largely in the dark, broken by the orange glow at the end of their smokes.

Paul accepted his cigarette and leaned next to John, one hand in his trouser pocket, his eyes looking up at the back of the pub building. Following his gaze, John spied the little window of their bedroom.

“I like it here,” Paul said quietly. “It’s quiet. It feels so bloody normal, you know?”

The rush of nicotine was warming him up, making him feel pliable and tired. “Little Richard would knock their dentures out.”

“I say we play _Twist and Shout.”_ Paul sounded facetious. His arm was close to John’s, their shoulders brushing against the wall. “Or _Long Tall Sally.”_

“Hard to do without a drummer,” John pointed out.

“Two guitars could make an interesting sound.” Paul had his ‘music’ voice on, the one he got when his mind was filtering through the endless possibilities of their set list, their gig make up, whatever it was. He could compartmentalize in a way that, frankly, boggled John’s mind. “Just the two of us, singing. I don’t know anyone who does stuff like that, unless you count – Ah, there’s that band… The Kingston Trio! If you had your banjo it’d be perfect.”

Paul seemed to realize what he’d said. Before he could apologize, John said through a silver cloud, “Julia played it more than me. I prefer rock n’ roll, son.”

“Yeah.” He sounded embarrassed, so John shook his head. “Daft lad. I’m not about to cry me fuckin’ eyes out, no fear.”

“No, sure.” Paul paused. Cigarette smoke wound around them, mingling with the smell of beer and damp earth. “There’s a piano in the front. We could do a medley.”

John smirked around his cigarette. “Ye could lead us all in Sunday service.”

As Paul took a deep breath to demonstrate, John said, “Shurrup, you!” and clapped a hand over his mouth. He could feel Paul grin against his fingers. They looked at each other in the dim light, Paul’s eyes dark and sharp, the smile in his expression fading slightly. Swallowing, John lowered his hand. The sudden way Paul bit his lip drew his attention; and as he watched, Paul’s throat bobbed.

Feeling a rush of something hot and alarming run down his spine, John took a drag of his cigarette to occupy his hands. Paul too resumed smoking, an uncertain silence falling over them. When Paul tossed his cigarette away, he lifted his head and exhaled a stream of smoke.

“Coming to bed?” he asked casually.

John stared at him. “Why, Paul,” he started, his voice taking on a feminine quality. “I had no idea…”

Rolling his eyes, Paul said, “Fuck off,” but he was smiling. John merely smirked at him and dropped his cig, crushing it underfoot.

They trailed wordlessly back into the house. Mike must have closed up without them; the pub was dark and empty. As they snuck up the stairs, they glimpsed Betty sitting in their second-floor living room, listening to the wireless and knitting. Her voice floated upstairs behind them, “Goodnight, boys,” and Paul stage whispered, “Goodnight, Betty.”

Their attic room was warmed by the rising heat from downstairs. After cracking the window as far as it’d go and shoving their stuff off the bed, they changed out of their clothes. John had stripped down to his jocks and undershirt in front of Paul far too many times to count, but tonight he felt an undercurrent of awkwardness to the proceedings. Even Paul lingered after John had thrown himself into the bed, hovering over his clothes and folding them all neatly. John wriggled around getting comfortable before whispering hoarsely, “McCartney, get your arse in here.”

“I’m not slovenly, unlike some,” Paul whispered back. He finished putting his jumper away before turning off the overhead light. In the hush of their room John listened to Paul feel his way over to the bed. His own muscles were tense, one arm thrown over the top of his head, the other resting over his stomach. When the mattress dipped beneath Paul’s weight and he settled beside John, their bodies immediately pressed against each other.

John’s mouth went dry. Each movement Paul made was magnified, their skin sticking, the residual scent of smoke and soap making something stir in John’s gut.

“Move over,” Paul hissed in the darkness. John scowled and wriggled enough to nearly push Paul off the bed. The corresponding growl made him smirk, then Paul seized his arm and was shoving him onto his side. A struggle ensued, during which knees and elbows tangled, and they’d started to shudder with laugher, becoming helpless. Tired out, John eventually settled on his right side, facing Paul on the mattress. “Hullo, dear,” he whispered.

Paul laughed lowly, the sound intimate and warm. He shifted for a bit before settling half on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, and sighed contentedly. John openly watched Paul gaze at the ceiling, blinking slowly, evidently lost in thought. The air clung to their bodies, close and strange, settling along the plane of Paul’s smooth stomach, the thick dark hair just visible beneath his thin shirt that John could imagine trailing into his jocks...

John’s breath snagged in his throat and he forced himself to close his eyes against the sight. It was a long while until sleep pulled at his bones, and by then he’d lost count of Paul’s steady breathing beside him.

* * *

The morning found them dossing about the pub until Mike threw them out, saying, “Make yourselves scarce, or so help me, I’ll nail you to the mantle!”

“Now I know where you get your charm,” John told Paul as they started down the road. They grabbed their guitars before skirting out the door. The day stretched on endlessly before them; freedom tasted sweet on his tongue.

He tipped his head to the overcast sky as they walked, hands in pockets, their guitar cases bumping every now and then. Paul was smoking and chatting away about whatever came to mind, music or girls, sounding happy and light-hearted, so much so that John wanted very badly to press him into the hedge and –

 _Christ,_ he should have known these _thoughts_ would intrude over the course of this week. One bleedin’ _day_ in the sole company of Paul McCartney would convert any old mug, especially if they were as weak-willed and randy as John. Not for the first time he wondered what it’d be like to meet a girl with Paul’s character and Bardot’s legs, and what the likelihood would be on trading Cyn in for such a model.

The weather had turned quick and light, clouds thin and grey and scudding along, the warm spring sun dappling through the cover. As they trailed along the lane they passed a wooden gate, which lead onto a field that rolled down until, at the far end, John guessed there was a brook or some other babbling body of water, postcard pretty. He caught Paul’s sleeve and whistled, jerking his head toward the field. Like a pair of proper country bumpkins they jumped the fence and, hands in pockets with cigarettes in their mouths, strode over thick heather towards a copse of trees. Soon the sound of running water interspersed with birdsong and sheep bleating and the heavens opening, et cetera.

“Fuckin’ idyllic, this,” John said, cig clenched between his teeth. Throwing himself down on the spongy ground, he stretched out spread-eagled and peered up at the leafy canopy. He breathed in the scent of smoke and riverweed and felt his bones settle.

Paul walked over to stand above him. The light tangled around his dark hair and made his eyes glitter. A soft smile tugged at his mouth. “You hate the country.”

John grinned. “Particularly when you’re around.”

He mimed a kick to John’s midsection before wandering over to sit beside him. Ignoring John’s cries for help, he began unpacking his guitar.

John struggled to sit up. His hair was mussed and falling into his eyes, overlong in the way that Mimi loathed, but worth it for the occasions when Paul would fuss and push it back, saying, _No grease, Lennon? You’re losing it, you are._ John watched Paul as he began to pick out some chords, his fingers moving so deftly over the strings, eyes drifting closed. Even the wind seemed to cease as Paul started to play. The animals fell silent. If John really wanted to push the point, he’d say that even the bleddy river shut its gurgling.

It took him a while to recognize the song: _Anna (Go to Him)._ John wound his arms around his knees and tapped his fingers in time, mumbling, “ _Go with him, oh_ ,” for the harmony. After a while he pulled his own case over and got out his guitar. He still had to watch his hands as he tuned the damned thing, glancing up briefly to watch where Paul’s fingers fell. Paul shifted closer until they sat cross-legged across from each other. He reached out and adjusted John’s fingers, his touch feather light.

“Index finger here,” he said quietly. “And ring finger… Yeah, that’s it.” Returning to his own guitar, Paul counted them in softly, _one two three four,_ as if they were holed up in the corner of the Jac or the McCartney living room, preparing for a set comprised of them alone. As one they started to play, their actions mirrored. Paul watched John’s hands so intently he felt his skin prickle. They swung instinctively into _That’ll Be the Day_. Paul’s voice simmered in back-up, John carrying the tune with his smoke-hoarse voice, feeling the way his throat started warm under the pleasant pressure. They riffed off each other in the middle eight with no George to inject his characteristic long-winded solo, John laughing as Paul tried something tricky that fell flat, him making a face at John before they fell back into the chorus, John rising into _that’ll be the day-ay-ay that I die,_ as Paul’s harmony swept them into a triumphant finish.

Paul grinned. “Never gets old, that one.”

“If Elvis be the King, Berry be the Queen,” John pronounced.

“I thought _we_ were the royalty of rock n’ roll?” Paul commented, picking up an idle tune on his guitar.

Shrugging off his leather jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, John smirked. “Aye, and I’m the queen.”

Paul’s cheeks went a little pink. He ducked his head to watch his hands, the slow brush of his eyelashes and shuttered look in his eyes giving little away. Paul did this sometimes, this closing off, as if he weighed each quip on the tip of his tongue before swallowing them back down. At first John assumed it had to do with their dynamic – he wasn’t daft; half the reason why he wanted Paul in the first place was because he could play like a demon and looked like a girl; it gave a man an ego, having someone like that look at you the way Paul did – until he gradually realized it was just _Paul._ He was a bloke who teetered on the line between outrageous jokes and dogged modesty, a duplicity that was at once engaging and maddening. And here they all thought John was the inscrutable one.

They traded melodies back and forth for a while. John found himself slipping beneath the tide of Paul’s playing, each scale practiced more smooth than the last, the snippets of songs both sweet and half-arsed. They both tended to feel the song out, as if they were stepping blind into the dark, guided only by music. Paul’s lyrics were usually verbal foreplay, pretty but empty, and John just pulled anything out of his arse. Diamond rings, you sweet thing, girl kiss me, _mm baby._

“’Mm, baby’?” Paul scoffed. “Steady on, you’ll have half the girls back home throwing their knickers on stage.”

John sighed mournfully. “One can only dream, son.”

Laughing, Paul shook his head. After a beat, during which John was very much not looking at the exposed curve of his neck, Paul said lightly, “You ever think about it? What you want to do?”

“’Sides from makin’ music, ye mean.” When Paul nodded, John looked uncomfortably back at his hands. Truth was he couldn’t _do_ anything. He was shite at drawing – only went to the institute to get Mimi off his back – and he was too lazy for a proper job. When he played, everything faded away. It was just the feel of strings against fingertips, the bruised sensation of playing for too long, the roughness in his voice when he bawled _All Shook Up_ to a club of heaving teenagers drunk on adrenaline. And in all this Paul just _fit._ Trading looks across stage, practicing eyeball-to-eyeball, sharing cigs and birds and drinks and all the while feeling a tight grip of _rightness_ when he looked at Paul that he never felt anywhere, with anyone, and if that made him the queen of rock n’ roll he’d happily take up the mantle.

“I dunno,” John said instead.

“I don’t believe you.”

Irritated, John met Paul’s calm gaze. “No?” he retorted.

“Nah,” Paul replied. “You’re too… passionate.”

John stared at him. After a questioning pause he looked away quickly, swallowing, to rest his hands on the top of his guitar. “Mimi thinks it’s a phase,” he said, avoiding how much those words stung. “She’d be much happier if I got me a regular gig. Down the docks or in an office or somethin’ useless like that.” _If the glove fits,_ he thought with a stab of self-hatred.

“Dad wants me to be a teacher,” Paul admitted, and there was a wryness in his tone that made John smirk and go, “Oh, aye? Teacher McCartney, is it? Have any saucy tales to share with the class?”

Paul’s expression was cool. “That’s ‘sir’ to you, boy.”

John pretended to shiver and simpered, “I do like it when ye boss me about…”

“Detention after school,” Paul replied, mock-stern, a teasing grin threatening to break his façade. “And no more of this music business.”

“If only it were a bloody business,” he griped, abruptly dropping their game. “If we don’t get another gig soon I swear to Christ I’ll do meself in, just for something to do.”

“You wouldn’t,” Paul said jokingly. When John didn’t reply, he frowned. “You wouldn’t.”

“Nah,” he said, all breezy, “no fun in bein’ dead, is there.”

“That’s the general consensus.” Paul started to play, evidently drifting into thought. The gentle strumming soothed John into closing his eyes. A few minutes passed before Paul said, “I wanna know, Johnny. What do you want?”

He opened his eyes. “I wanna be rich, son.”

“I… Well, I wanna to make music.” Paul stared over his head, playing his guitar without looking. “Music that makes people feel – everything, I suppose.” He blinked suddenly and looked at John.

“Come off it,” he scoffed, “you want them to scream your name. I know you, McCartney. Can’t go five minutes without an elaborate performance.”

Paul smirked and John felt his stomach _clang._ “You know what they say,” he started teasingly, “if you’ve got it…”

But here it was: John agreed. Paul had a habit of showing off and it had taken him a long while to realize that, for the most part, he did it unconsciously. Music clung to him, simmered in his veins, rising at the most innocuous of times: making tea, packing up after practice, walking across the common to meet John at the back of the institute. He hummed, and tapped, and let himself be buoyed by music in a way that John fiercely envied. For John music was raw; it was supposed to _hurt._ He needed the sharp-edged promise of a guitar solo and the implicit innuendo of a throbbing bassline. But Paul let it tease and flirt, and it was evident in the way he turned up the charm at their gigs, singing with those big eyes, catching the gaze of a girl and waggling his head as he swung into falsetto. It was studied talent, musical nonchalance, and it was no fuckin’ wonder he indulged himself. John would too, if he was that fuckin’ good.

“Yeah, yeah.” John uncrossed his arms and started picking out some song he’d half heard on the radio back at Mendips. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember how it went, the lyrics unfocused in his mind, something about… “ _Loving you,”_ he mumbled, “ _is the natural thing to do…”_

Paul joined in quietly, evidently threading together John’s piecemeal chords. They tried a quicker tempo before John muttered, “No, no,” and they pulled back into a slower tune.

“ _I want to –_ Fuck, no.” John opened his eyes and watched his hands, straining to think of the lyrics.

“ _I want you,”_ Paul’s voice was low and sweet as he improvised, “ _for the rest of time.”_

 _“My life,”_ John corrected, thinking of the rhyme.  They stopped and began at the beginning, the song slowly fading into their own melody. _“I want you,”_ he sang, “ _for the rest… of my life.”_

They played for a while longer before the song petered off into something else, Lewis or someone. Paul stopped and tapped his fingers on the body of his guitar, frowning in thought. “What _is_ that?”

“Dunno,” John said. “Nice, though. Bit country, like.”

“George would like it,” Paul said, just as John added, “Just up old George’s alley.” They laughed at each other. Paul resumed strumming, mouthing random words as he tried to think of the full song. His dark lashes caught the sunlight, a curl of hair resting across his forehead. John watched him and started to play another song.

Paul recognized it at once. He looked at John with a surprised smile. “ _I’ll do anything for you,”_ he joined in, “ _anything you want me to –“_

 _“If you’ll be true to me.”_ Feeling hot and nervous, he broke off with a series of vicious strums and launched into a stupid song from a flick they’d seen with Dot and Cyn.

“Now that one’s tuneful,” Paul said sarcastically. He laughed as John rounded off into a wild finish, clapping when John raised his hands from his guitar in receive of applause. “Thank you, thanks very much,” John slurred.

“Don’t you mean –“ Paul gave a terrible impression of Berry, madly shrugging shoulders and all.

“Fuck me, son,” John sputtered, laughter catching in his throat and making him grin widely at Paul, who was clutching his guitar and trying to catch his breath, “that was –“

The atmosphere shifted. For a confused moment John could only stare as Paul’s grin faded. Something distant and dark settled in the back of Paul’s expression, and when he licked his lips, John’s eyes dropped to his mouth, helplessly, _stupidly._ He swallowed and something kicked in his chest when Paul watched the movement, those black lashes shuttering slowly, his mouth parting just enough that John thought about what it’d be like, what it’d _taste_ like, all damp and warm and inviting, and _fuckin’ hell, no, Lennon, you absolute fucking waste of space._

John stood abruptly. He held the neck of his guitar tightly in one hand. He stared down at Paul, who was looking at him in mild alarm.

“Johnny?” he asked quietly.

“I’m bored as shite,” he said shortly. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”

A coolness crossed Paul’s face. He put his guitar away and stood up, holding the strap at his shoulder. With anyone else the moment would have stretched out awkwardly, both of them thinking _‘ey up, here’s Lennon at it again,_ and _how can I get away from this nutter,_ but Paul only watched him for a bit before smiling, the action so soft that John’s heart ached ached ached. “Yeah, alright. How’s about we raid old Mike’s stash, eh?”

Deflating, John grumbled, “He’d be no bloody barman if he didn’t have somethin’ good.”

Paul made a knowing face and tapped the side of his nose. “You didn’t think I passed the opportunity to do some investigating, did you?”

And John was seized with the intense urge to grab him close and bruise him good, to make him see and know how mad he made John feel. But he only said, “I’d have disowned you otherwise, ye bastard,” and when Paul winked the knife stuck a little deeper.

 

* * *

Mike had obviously decided that another night with John in the pub may be tempting fate. After he and Paul had snooped around the bar – Mike and Betty were upstairs, listening to the wireless or reading or doing old people things – and liberated a bottle of rye whiskey from the top shelf, they’d gone up to put their guitars away and act as if their morning frolicking in the meadow had been the greatest ever, all fresh air and butterflies or whatever the fuck they were supposed to feel about the country. Paul wasn’t five minutes into a persuasive diatribe about the Wonders of Caversham when Mike folded his newspaper in half and said astutely, “Why don’t you lads take the night off.”

Paul looked up from his buttie in surprise. “But you need help in the pub, don’t you?”

“I’ve managed for fifteen years, Paul.” He smiled and adjusted his paper, flicking a look at John, who was lounging on a settee and eating a biscuit. “I’m sure I can handle one more night. There’s that dance on – isn’t there?” This last part was directed to Betty. She didn’t look up from her knitting as she said vaguely, “Yes, I think so. At the town hall. The Robinson’s daughter is going.”

John just stopped himself from saying, _girls?_ like the sex-starved adolescent he was, and said to Paul through a mouthful of crumbs, “He’s right, ye know.”

“And you’d know _how?”_ Paul fussily recrossed his legs. Anyone would think he _liked_ wiping spilled beer and joking with elderly dairy farmers in his free time. God knew that Jim McCartney would rather Paul count thread or rebottle milk instead of skive off. _Are ye doing anything today, Paul?_ he’d ask in that faintly condescending tone, every inch a man who’d stuck through the war with nary a peep, who probably thought of England as he took a dump and even had a framed photograph of Churchill up on the wall. Paul said, “We don’t mind. We like helping, don’t we, John?”

“You can help tomorrow,” Betty said kindly, glancing up from her stitches. “In the meantime, you boys should enjoy your trip.”

John gave Paul a meaningful look. He tried to make his eyebrows communicate, _think of the whiskey, McCartney._

Paul frowned. “You’re really sure?”

“Ah, son, don’t fret about it,” Mike said expansively. “Best you nerk twins stay occupied, you know.” He smiled at John, who beamed back.

“Yes, I’m not used to the country,” John lisped, putting on a lost-dairymaid voice, “I need a respectable man to show me the way.”

“The way out the door, maybe,” Paul countered, but he was grinning. “Alright, if ye say so. Coming, then?”

As John got up to follow Paul upstairs, Betty caught his eye. “You two take care,” she said wryly. “No gallivanting off into the night.”

“Aye, aye.” Saluting her, John let himself be dragged out of the room. “She’s alright, your cousin,” he told Paul once he’d caught up on the stairs.

“Got your seal of approval, does she.” Paul shot him a smirk over his shoulder. Once they reached the attic, John immediately went over to the window to have a cigarette. He had one lit before he noticed Paul was still by the door. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Come on, McCartney. Smoke break.”

“I just remembered,” Paul said smoothly, “I said I’d ring Dot. Be right back.”

“Christ,” John grumbled. Giving him a quick smile, Paul turned and clattered back down the stairs, hands in pockets.

He managed to smoke in silence for a good few minutes before contemplation gave way to fidgeting, which for him strolled hand in hand with morbid curiosity, and then John was mumbling, “Fuck it,” and chucked his cig out the window. He crept a little down the stairs, just enough that he could see Paul’s legs as he stood in the lower corridor by the phone on the wall. John put his hand out on the rafter by his head, ducking down to listen.

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’re you? Not too bored without me?” Blah de blah, Polite Paulie being a Good Boy, just on this side of Sweet Flirtatious Lad. Even the back of his head looked saintly, the white curve of his neck bent as he looked at his shoes, his soft jumper snug around his waist. John let himself watch for a long moment, thinking of touching the small spaces that Paul kept hidden beneath impersonal smiles, manufactured laughs, and telephone calls to a bird he didn’t really like.

John knew that because Cyn had mentioned a couple of things, snippets that she’d made him swear not to repeat. Things like _Dot has to kiss him first_ and _Paul’s so gentle, it’s a bit like being with a friend_ and _You don’t think that…_ Then came that hushed word that made Cynthia, closed-legged Cynthia, blush like the Hoylake cow she was, one hand to her lips as if the mere concept would make John like her _less_ or something, never mind that he thought about all that quite a lot, had even considered that he might be a bit like that himself.

“No, no, it’s lovely. It really is. Me and John have walked around loads, seen the village and the shops… It’s nice, yeah.” Paul laughed indistinctly. “Yeah, ‘course I am, love… Are you?”

So, it was going to be one of _those_ phone calls. Christ, he could do without Paul and Dot slobbering on each other, never mind the fun of eavesdropping. John straightened up, thinking about resuming his cigarette, when Paul’s voice dropped suddenly. His words were quick and low, and, if John knew anything about him, angry.

“What? You don’t know what you mean. What makes y’believe that shite?” Paul lowered the receiver and shifted his weight. John pushed back to hide further up the stairs until he had to strain to hear his voice. “Well, don’t then. Bloody hell, Dot, I’d have thought better of… I’m not mad! No, love, don’t…” Paul lapsed into agonized silence. John could imagine the weeping on the other end; he was surprised his Cyn wasn’t amphibious, if the amount of crying she did was anything to go by.

John stared at the opposite wall. Still Paul’s voice floated up to meet him, the words fading out until they were a dull buzz in John’s ears. He forced himself to go back up into the attic, to light a cigarette, to lean against the windowsill. _You don’t think that…_

 _No,_ he thought angrily, inhaling smoke so hard it burned his chest. _Paul’s fuckin’ normal. He’s not –_ John ran his thumb along his bottom lip and gazed unseeingly at the outbuilding down in the courtyard.

The shrill return of the receiver in the cradle heralded Paul thumping up the stairs. John straightened and tried to smoke as casually as possible, only sparing a glance when Paul came up beside him.

“Happy families?”

Paul’s hand, which was tapping out a cigarette against his wrist, slowed. Then he stuck the cig in his mouth and pulled out his lighter, catching it with an angry _click_ and inhaling as if it were the only thing keeping him sane. When he spoke, his voice was light, studied. “Dot’s fine. She says hullo.”

“Is that so.” John stared at Paul’s sharp-nosed profile.

Smoke burst from Paul’s mouth as he furiously stabbed the cig out on the windowsill. “M’going on a walk.”

Scowling, John turned to watch him grab his jacket from the bed. “Ease up,” he complained, “we just came in. I need a kip.”

“So do it,” Paul snapped over his shoulder. His tugged on his jacket and went clattering out of the room, his cheeks red where John glimpsed them, mouth pursed. John could only watch like a lemming as Paul disappeared down the stairs; could only listen to the distant sound of the front door closing. “Ah, Christ.” He crushed his cigarette alongside Paul’s, then went to sink onto the bed. For a solid five minutes he waited, half convinced Paul was going to come slinking back, trying on some apology about losing his temper and how _I probably need some sleep,_ never mind the fact that John had gone through this coy rigmarole a thousand times before, and it always ended the same bleedin’ way.

John rubbed a rough hand through his hair. _Christ,_ he thought again, fiercely. Shoving himself to his feet, John found his discarded jacket and the flat bottle of whiskey they’d hidden behind a bookcase. He shoved the bottle into the back of his jeans and tugged on his jacket and went charging out after stupid fuckin’ Paul McCartney. It had to be a sort of horrible irony that out of everyone in this sorry world, only Paul could make him come crawling.

They’d been in Caversham for a day and a bit, but already John felt he knew where to go. When he was angry, properly seeing red, Paul needed to walk. It never mattered where; they were like each other in that respect. So as John took off down the main road that turned into a street that turned into a lane, it wasn’t long before he spotted that familiar figure striding along in the distance.

The spring breeze picked up as John hurried along, nipping at his heels, bringing with in a confused scent of Ivory soap, spilled beer, and something peppery that he half-imagined belonged only to Paul. The lane, which was probably used by tractors or serfs or whatever happened out here, was slightly boggy, great tufts of heather interspersed with cow shite. John picked his way through, thinking that it was damned lucky that Paul was such a good guitarist. There’d be no chance of doing this for George, that was for sure.

“McCartney!” He was in earshot, if the way Paul’s shoulders rose was any indication. “Slow the fuck down, you stupid fuckin’ – fuck –“

Paul stopped and watched his heaving approach. “You smoke too much,” he said coldly when John straggled up.

John coughed, hands on knees. “Ah, shurrup.” He waved a hand and straightened. “M’fine. Fresh as a daisy. Fancy a cig?”

A smile flickered across Paul’s mouth before his eyes shuttered over just as swiftly. He observed John’s elaborate ritual, complete with _you know you want to_ eyebrow waggles, before he sighed loudly, throwing up his hands.

“Don’t let me force ye,” John grumbled, handing over a lit cig. “Christ, Dot must have got right up there.”

Paul’s lips thinned. He resumed walking, his shapely legs making easy work of the country lane, the sharp wind whistling at their backs and sending colour into his flushed cheeks. John, who knew better than to badger, but often did not have the patience to wait out Paul’s hissy fits, walked alongside him. They smoked quietly. Cattle grazed in the open field to their left. If John squinted, he could believe that this laneway went forever. There they be, two boys in black, doomed to walk the endless track.

After a while walking got boring, so John made a small noise of remembrance as he produced the flat bottle of whiskey. All that jogging had made the glass warm, but he’d been told once by an especially salty sailor that warmth made the whiskey sweeter. John broke the cap and unscrewed it. Paul watched, amused, as he took a long slug.

“Ah.” John swallowed, smacked his lips, and stuck his cigarette back in his mouth. He caught Paul’s eye and grinned fuzzily. “Bliss.”

Paul laughed like he couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened them and held out his cig hand for the bottle. John acquiesced, cheering when Paul took an equally large drink.

They looked at each other and started to laugh. The absurdity of their surroundings made John grin broadly, thinking of guitars submerged in streams and a field of knitted wool. When he took the bottle back he held it up in toast. Paul’s eyes glittered as he grinned.

“To us,” John said grandly.

“To Caversham,” Paul intoned, then laughed as John spat out his mouthful of whiskey. “Get it down, Lennon,” Paul goaded, thumping him on the back.

John spluttered. Recovering, he managed a long pull and handed the bottle over. Licking whiskey from his lips, John said, “Pre-drinking already, are we?”

“Oh, yes,” Paul replied seriously. “I expect to be fully gone before we grace this town hall with our presence.”

John grinned. “Then get fuckin’ drinkin’, son.”

“I will, if you’d let me be for five bloody minutes.” As John _ooh_ ed, Paul shook his hand and grabbed the bottle from him, grinning as he took a long slug. It was obviously going down smoothly, if the second gulp was anything to go by.

John raised an eyebrow. “Ease up, McCartney. Wouldn’t want ye falling tits over arse before they’ve handed out the fruit punch.”

They drank for a while longer, trading the bottle back and forth, gazing out over the fields. John never reckoned he’d go big for the country – too big – but there was something still and good about being here with Paul. As they began to wander back to town, John confiscated the bottle and shoved it down the back of his trousers. Paul, midway through a swallow, made a sound in the back of his throat, then complained, “Hey!”

“Enough of that,” John barked. He sucked on his cig and, with a wicked look in his eye, blew smoke in Paul’s face. “We’ll need reinforcing later, mark me words.”

He scowled and waved the smoke away. “I wonder if they’ll be fit,” Paul muttered, hands shoved in his pockets, kicking clods of dirt as they walked. “I feel like I need –”

“What’s this? Nun McCartney having a change of heart?” Paul rolled his eyes as John staggered along, clutching his chest in mock incredulity. “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”

“None of that, now,” Paul admonished. “It’s a valid fear. What was all that about masculine energies?”

John scoffed. “Only that ye don’t spend ‘em all at once.” He thought about what Paul had said, his longing words making something hot twist in the pit of his stomach. An image flashed through his mind – fisted sheets and bitten mouths – and had to clear his throat loudly.

“Good to know you’re not afraid of hair on yer palms,” John commented.

Paul snorted and said tartly, “Contrary to popular opinion, m’not a sexual hermit.”

Well _that_ made John glance at him with one eyebrow raised, straining to keep his voice steady. “I’ll have to keep me eye on you, lest ye ruin some poor thing’s virtue.”

“You and me both,” Paul replied. “But only if the girls are nice looking, you know.”

Before he could think too much about it, John said, “Aye, the boys too.”

It was like Paul’s mind shuttered for a moment. As they walked, John felt the brush of Paul’s arm against his, their strides matched in length, the quiet sound of Paul’s breathing. He could practically _feel_ Paul’s brain whirring to keep up, could sense the tangle of confused thoughts, _he couldn’t have meant…?_ Something akin to nerves, hot and quick, skittered under his skin, and John found himself concentrating on the end of his cigarette, willing the whole fuckin’ thing to blow up in his stupid fuckin’ face. But then Paul’s arm pressed closer to his, and John blurted, “Ye ever think about that?”

“What?” Paul darted a look at him. “No.”

“No, what?” John pressed. “No to thinkin’, or no to boys?”

“Stop it, John.” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark and nervous. Paul laughed quickly, then cut himself off in a manner so abrupt that John studied him in his peripheral vision, startled to see that Paul looked lost in thought, that tell-tale divot furrowing between his brows. He moved his hands in his pockets, then said, “Why, d’you?”

John’s blood ran hot. “Do what?”

“Think about it.” Clearing his throat, Paul kicked a stone with the tip of his shoe. He fidgeted for a moment more before licking his lips. “About boys, and that.”

Suddenly the situation was too bizarre, too _wrong._ Paul was just being a good sport, playing into John’s fucked up line of inquiry, a regular perverted policeman, _whaddaya think about when ye touch yerself, Paulie? Who’d ye picture between your legs?_ Even that made him swallow down a dangerous swell of desire, and he forced himself to take out two cigs and light them, and as he did so his head swam with the whiskey, and he thought, _Christ, it’s only three o’clock in the bloody afternoon._

John handed a cigarette over. Taking it wordlessly, Paul glanced at John’s profile but otherwise didn’t press the issue. A rush of gratitude nearly made John say something stupid, but he let the silence slow and stretch between them. As they reached the outskirts of the town, John said lightly, “Can I have a kip now, please, sir?”

Paul burst in laughter. “Yeah.” He exhaled and nudged John’s arm; when their eyes met, John’s chest clenched. “Go on, old man.”

The drink made him feel loose and tired. Paul was too much. He’d always known it, deep down, from the moment he looked across the crowd at the fete and glimpsed a boy who looked so much like a young Elvis his cock throbbed. It was any wonder that he’d gotten away with what happened later – draping an arm around Paul’s shoulders, watching him play the piano, feeling something deep and right pound through his veins every time their eyes met, Paul grinning shyly and glancing away, John dark and intent by his side – that no one had suspected what he’d really wanted, what it’d really meant. And afterwards: John, locked in his room for fuckin’ hours, hand in his shorts like a schoolboy, thinking of the way Paul licked his lips before he sang.

Lost in thought, he was only roused when they reached the pub and Paul turned to catch his eye. He gave him a small smile and murmured, “Want company?”

John chucked away his cig. “Only if ye keep ye hands to yourself, Paulie.”

Blinking sweetly, Paul said, “Tall order, Johnny.”

“Bugger off,” John growled. He grinned when Paul burst into laughter, letting himself get shoved through the door by a mock-irate John.

Mike collared them not two steps into the pub, wanting help with the lunch service. John managed to beg off with some half-arsed excuse, although Paul, smelling faintly of whiskey and grass, said politely, “I’ll help,” as if he were going to be any use half a bottle down. Regardless, John sloped off to have a kip. He was awakened some indeterminate amount of time later by Paul whispering in his ear, “The Irish are coming!”

Rolling over onto his back, John blinked sleepily. “Ah, I knew you’d turn one day, son,” he mumbled. Yawning, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where am I?”

The bedside lamp was on, bathing the attic space in a warm glow. Outside the window twilight had fallen; the distant sound of the pub clamour filtered up the stairs, mingling with Betty’s laughter and a rumbled comment of Mike’s. His disorientation curled through him in a comforting sort of way; he always did better when things were upside down.

Paul appeared soft-eyed above him, smiling in the way he reserved only for John (not that he’d scrutinized the way Paul smiled at anyone else, ‘course). He held up a plate. “The dance starts soon.”

“Sod the dance,” John grumbled, but he sat up anyway and started in on the ham buttie. He watched dazedly as Paul tinkered about the room, sorting through his rucksack for clothes, finding his comb on the table. His cheeks were scrubbed pink, as if he’d had a bath, and his hair curled fluffily around his ears. Paul leaned close to the mirror and began combing it into submission, each flick of his wrist so neat that John wanted very badly to kiss the small bones there.

“Didn’t realize we had to dress up,” he commented from the bed. Paul caught his eye in the reflection and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ye want to impress the local birds, Johnny?” he teased. “Or are ye trained on the lads, tonight?”

John’s stomach swooped. Paul sounded casual enough, the comment tinged with just enough of _la-di-da_ to let them get away with laughing it off, making some elaborate farce of it all, _Oo-er, Paulie, lookin’ out for me virtue too?_ John took an extra-large bite of his sandwich and settled for mumbling, “Cyn’d have me balls, son.”

“Never stopped you before,” Paul replied, quick as a whip. He yelled when John grabbed a book from the bedside table and lobbed it at him from across the room. “Right.” Turning around, Paul grinned wickedly and leaped onto the bed. They tussled furiously, John doing his level best to save both his buttie and his arse from Paul’s well-executed kicks. Paul, laughing in his ear; Paul, pliant beneath him; Paul, blinking up, hair mussed on the pillowcase, grinning broadly and teasing, “That all ye got, Lennon?”

“Not nearly.” John’s voice came out lower than he expected. With a sudden, intense thrill, he watched as Paul’s eyes darkened at the sound. It caught him like a stuck record.

He let go of Paul’s wrists and sat up quickly. Paul followed suit, leaning back on his elbows, looking at John with an unreadable expression. John resumed eating, mainly for something to do. He was vaguely aware of the whiskey still winding through his system, unabated by his nap, but mellow enough that he felt slow and sure. John glanced at Paul. _Mostly,_ he thought.

“Keep preening,” John ordered. “Ye won’t pull any birds lookin’ like that.”

“I’d pull birds in a bin liner,” Paul quipped. He yelped when John made to rumble again, hopping off the bed quick-smart and laughing. Paul went back to the mirror.

Rumpling a hand through his own hair, John considered for all of five minutes about getting dressed properly. He felt hot and sticky from sleeping in his jumper, though he’d had the foresight to take his drainies off. With a long-suffering sigh, John finished his buttie and got to his feet. Paul watched him dig through his duffel, still combing his hair.

“Wear the black one,” Paul said quietly.

John’s pulse spiked. He held up the jumper with a questioning look. It was the light that made it look like Paul’s cheeks were pink – probably the warmth of the room, too. It didn’t have anything to do with the way he smiled quickly and looked back at his reflection, like maintaining something as innocuous as eye contact was suddenly a tremendous thing indeed. John swallowed dryly. Before he could think too much about it, he grabbed a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jumper, and made awkwardly for the door. “I’ll just –”

Paul nodded quickly at John’s vague gesture. “Yeah, yeah, no problem.” John scarpered.

After locking the bathroom door behind him, John dropped his clothes on the linoleum floor. He held onto the rim of the sink and stared at himself. Even his hair looked fuckin’ soft. The way his skin pinched with colour. Low heat prickled beneath his skin; and he thought, in a confused sort of way, that it was a good thing Paul wasn’t a bird, otherwise he’d be in real fuckin’ trouble. John licked his lips. He glanced down at his cock. _Behave,_ he told it.

John splashed some water on his face. He wasn’t like Paul, who cultivated his appearance like he was about to feature in a centre page spread for queer fantasies. Ordinarily all he did was whip some grease through his hair and pop his collar. And go with Paul to the tailors to get their trousers taken in. And pick out the nicest, darkest leather jacket he could, just so Paul had nearly spat out his tea and go, _You look like a bloody Teddy, John,_ as if that wasn’t the whole point, as if he hadn’t been aching for Paul’s reaction.

Agonizing over his reflection was more trouble than it was worth. John growled at himself and dressed quickly, tugging on his tight jeans and tucking in his t-shirt. With a comb he found in the cabinet, John slicked the sides of his hair back and expertly tamed his quiff. Then he gathered up his old clothes, barged out of the bathroom, and went stomping back upstairs to find Paul sitting on the bed, lacing up his shoes.

Paul looked up. His hands stilled. John mechanically shoved his shite in a duffel and began looking for smokes, sticking one in his mouth to avoid looking at Paul, feeling a steady throb in his gut the longer he felt Paul’s eyes on his ugly body.

"What?" he muttered.

Eventually Paul finished tying his laces. Standing up, he smoothed his palms over the front of his thighs, and caught John’s eye. “Ready to head?”

 _Oh, Christ,_ he thought in a panic. “’Ang on,” John mumbled. He found the bottle of whiskey and took a long pull. When he handed it to Paul, their hands brushed, sending a bolt of heat under his skin. John jerked his hand away and smoked with tight, rigid movements. Paul’s throat bobbed as he drank; John stared from the corner of his eye.

Lowering the bottle, Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at John with a slightly cocky air. “Ready now?”

Something loosened inside him. “If this doesn’t live up to expectation, Paulie, I’ll ‘ave your head.”

Paul grinned, low and dark, and John’s blood stirred. “I promise. Just you wait and see, Johnny boy.”

And like Paul had given him permission, John found himself grinning in return. He tipped his head back and considered Paul as he took a long drag of his cigarette, smoke curling up towards the ceiling. “I’ll hold ye to that.”

* * *

“This,” John pronounced, “will be the saddest fuckin’ thing I’ll ever experience.”

“It’s not that bad,” Paul tried. They watched as the far door of the hall opened and a group of girls came in. The shortest skirt came just below the knees; there was tweed involved. Paul fell silent.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” John muttered.

Biting his lip, Paul’s voice shook with suppressed laughter. “Alright, I might’ve overestimated –“

“They’re the ugliest bints I’ve _ever_ seen.”

“They’ve got good personalities!” Paul protested. He started to laugh properly but rubbed the side of nose, which he did when he was lost for words.

The girls crossed the room, some of them catching their eyes curiously. They huddled by the stage and whispered to each other, glancing over their shoulders and giggling. John watched the girls with a glazed expression, something distant and mean throbbing in the back of his mind.

He noticed a dark haired piece in a green cardigan. Emboldened, John threw her a smirk. She put a hand to her mouth and turned away, murmuring into the ear of her friend. The sight of her stirred his cock.

“Don’t stop me if I do somethin’ stupid,” he said absently.

Paul looked at him then looked at the girl. John could practically feel him tense up. “Oh, right,” he commented. “Same, then.”

“What about _Dorothy,”_ John needled, quicksilver cruel. He walked a few steps forward and turned to leer at Paul’s flat expression. “Dear old Dot, waiting for her man to come _home to her –“_

Paul scowled at John’s impromptu singing. “Shut up, John. Alright, let's get this over with.”

John, who would not take backseat to anyone, least of all a puffed-up McCharmley, swept past him and paraded across the hall. The girls watched their approach in a way that reminded him of animals about to start. The dark haired girl wound her arm through her friend’s and said, “We’ve not seen you two before.”

“We’re from Liverpool,” John growled, accentuating his Scouse until one of the birds rolled her eyes and flushed, pretending disdain. “Oi, none of that!” he barked. “We’re house trained.”

Eyeing them hungrily, John turned to grab Paul’s arm and haul him closer. Paul smiled somewhat indulgently and said, “Alright, girls.”

The girl with cloudy ginger hair looked at Paul in interest. “Are you Betty Robbins’ boy?”

“She’s me cousin,” Paul replied genially, “are you the Robinson girl?”

Not five minutes in, and already he was ramping up the fuckin’ charm. John couldn’t bring himself to look at him, but still he rested an elbow on Paul’s shoulder just so they could be close together, so that small queer part of him would shut the fuck up. His gaze slid over the girls, assessing them one by one, ignoring the ginger as she started to gamely chat to Paul. The dark one kept catching in his peripheral vision. Her expression was calm and direct, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile in a way that reminded him of…

“This is Paul,” he interrupted, slapping a hand on Paul’s chest for emphasis. John looked at the dark girl and grinned sharply. “And _I’m_ John.”

“Rosie,” she said, stopping just short of shaking his hand. A teasing look flickered in her gaze before she looked away and touched the ginger girl’s shoulder, who was prompted to say warmly, “I’m Maureen.”

John’s veins simmered, making him want someone, anyone, Rosie or Maureen or both. John moved his arm to rest further across Paul’s shoulders, their hips pressing together. After a beat, Paul shifted slightly and mirrored the pressure.

He gradually realized Rosie was talking to him, saying something about the bands that were coming on later. John immediately looked at Paul and said, “Oh, aye? We’re a band, aren’t we, Paulie.”

Breaking off his conversation with Maureen, Paul leaned in and said solemnly, “We’re the Nerk Twins.”

“Liverpool’s finest,” John added grandly.

Rosie looked amused. “What do you play, then?”

John smirked. His mouth twitching into a small grin, Paul looked at Rosie with an air of pride. “Rock n’ roll.”

“Oh, you don’t,” Maureen giggled. She tightened her grip on Rosie’s arm and looked between them, one hand hovering by her mouth. “My brother’s in a band. He says it’s dead hard to play.”

John scowled at her. “Yer point being, missy?”

“We take other requests,” Paul said quickly. “Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, all that.”

Not bloody _jazz_. John tried to communicate this telepathically to Paul, but he forged on, probably under a misguided impression that they’d end up taking to the stage themselves. He got like that, especially after a few drinks. Started making out like he could play anything, trumpet or piano or whathaveye, despite John having borne witness to Paul’s atrocious rendition of _As the Saints Come Marching in,_ of which the mere memory was enough to make him burst out laughing.

He looked up and away from Rosie and Maureen, suddenly bored. Other teenagers were starting to come into the hall in droves, bringing with them the warm scent of damp grass and early evening heat, the far doors thrown wide open, the sky fading into lilac. Most of the girls were ugly; the boys were runts. John caught a glimpse of a pathetic greased-up hairdo and openly snorted. As he scanned the room a gaggle of boys, possibly no younger than he and Paul, were struggling up on stage with instruments. The hall was clearly used for village fetes or council meetings or Christmas gatherings, and the worn wooden floor and tired lighting only undermined the awkward attempts at being _hip._ The band, if one could call them that, were in plaid shirts and tight jeans.

One of the lads looked over the room as he tuned his guitar, his gaze snagging on John’s.

A light touch on his forearm made him start. Jerking his eyes away, John turned to Rosie. Something akin to nerves flitted across her face before a determined smile made her lean forward, hand still on his arm. She murmured, “Have anything to drink?”

Well, well, well. John raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s a good girl like you wantin’ a drink for,” he sneered.

She gestured towards a table at the side of the room, which had rows of cups around a glass punch bowl. “There’s nothing but fruit juice in there,” she told him, eyes glittering. “Dancing’s not much fun without some stimulation.”

 _Stimulation_. John glanced at Paul, who was blathering on to Maureen about music, her nodding with an intrigued expression. A stab of jealousy made John’s throat tighten. He was gripped with the fleetingly desire to commandeer Paul for himself… Then he recalled that afternoon’s disastrous phone call with Dour Dot; the convoluted conversation that had followed. The fella deserved some fun; some _female_ fun. His mouth thinned but he moved away from Paul and, with a thin smile to Rosie, slipped through the growing crowd to the punch.

He had managed to surreptitiously empty the whole whiskey bottle into the bowl when the band started up. A wail from a guitar hit the feedback, making people wince and cover their ears. Teenage bodies clamoured towards the stage, girls with soft hair peering at the guitar players, tryhard Teddy boys lounging by their birds. John eyed them up, one by one, and felt a savage thrill when most of them averted their eyes.

As nonchalant as ye please, John meandered back to Paul.

“Where’d you get to?” he asked the moment John was beside him. Paul watched him intently, ignoring Maureen. John had to focus on the far stage lest he do something really fuckin’ stupid like cheer in victory or flick her the V’s, _how about that, girlie._

“Spiked the punch,” John said, lighting up a cigarette. He handed one to Paul wordlessly, who took it with a look of mingled pleasure and disapproval.

“Have you seen this lot? They’ll be bladdered after one sip.”

“Granddad’s sherry didn’t prepare them for this,” John murmured meanly. Paul barked out a laugh, hiding his grin with his cigarette hand. They shared a wicked look.

The strained chords of _Heartbreak Hotel_ started up from the band. After they’d warbled through half a verse John tucked his head to Paul’s ear and said, “What’ll ye give me if I strangle them by mid-set.”

Paul laughed again, shaking his head. He had to lean in close to make himself heard over the din, murmuring, “Whatever you like, Johnny.”

John pulled back enough to hold Paul’s gaze. “You shouldn’t ‘ave said that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, m’not gonna pass that one up, am I?” John watched Paul’s eyes widen fractionally. Someone had turned down the lights of the hall so bodies were half-lit from the glow of the stage, everyone bobbing to the discordant murder of the King’s greatest hit. An urgent, sweaty anticipation started to grip the room, crawling up the walls, that roll of music coming up through the floor to shudder their bones.

Paul tilted his head at him and lifted his hand to drag on his cigarette. The action was so familiar, so gently calculated, that John was seized with an adolescent urge that had him fucking girls on gravestones or feeling Cyn up at the Casbah.

Exhaling a stream of smoke, John flicked his cig away into the crowd behind him. His eyes were intense on Paul’s, heavy like, and he thought about earlier, _D’you ever think about…_

Paul opened his mouth to speak.

Maureen suddenly peered around him, her hair a copper halo about her face.

“Will you get me a drink, Paul?” she asked indistinctly over the clamour. People were starting to dance now, clumsy and horny, grabbing at the opportunity of a mixed dance hall to let off some steam.

Blinking rapidly, Paul tore himself from John. He stared at Maureen for a beat before sticking his cig in the corner of his mouth. “Alright, yeah, sure. Sorry, love.”

“Me too, thanks, Paul,” Rosie put in from John’s left. Belatedly he realized he’d completely forgotten her existence.

John pinched Paul’s side when he passed. “Yes, thanks, waiter.”

“Bloody hell,” Paul griped, but he shot John a small grin as he disappeared into the heaving crowd.

Rosie wasn’t brave enough to ask John to dance, despite her earlier mischief, but John was seized with a mad, frustrated desire to do something, anything. When Paul returned with four generous glasses balanced in his hands, cigarette drooping from his pink lips, John goaded her into downing it in one, then grabbed her close and growled, “Fancy a spin, lady?”

She thought herself too cool for giggling, so Rosie settled for tossing her dark hair back and looking him right in the eye. “If you think you can handle it,” she tried.

John caught Paul’s gaze as he let Rosie lead him into the fray, raising his eyebrows mockingly and making a crude gesture with his free hand. Maureen saw and blushed; and Paul only pursed his lips and pretended not to be amused. The band launched into an unsteady attempt at a Berry song, the singer too white for words like that, although their drummer wasn’t half bad. Rosie buried them in the crowd, bodies pressing all around them, country bumpkins let off the lead for one wild night at the village hall.

Working on autopilot, John started to move with her. The music rumbled, thrumming through his body despite the off-keys and pitchy singing, good because it was _Berry,_ fun because the whiskey still warmed his veins. Rosie danced gamely, each move practiced and neat, too white-socked to be like Cyn but brimming with enough adrenaline and hormones to try anything once, even if it were with a Scouse bastard like him. His shirt stuck to the small of his back, and his leather jacket rubbed the side of his neck. Skin glowing and damp, John gave himself into the thrill of _moving._ He never got to do it like this on stage, Paul always going on about being _professional_ and all that shite, as if he wasn’t bubbling over with the urge to let loose like the rest of them.

A flushed face through the crowd caught John’s eye. Paul was glimpsed through the dancing teenagers, his black hair sticking a little to his forehead, mouth open as he laughed with Maureen. They were dancing sweetly, Maureen a slight thing with a big swing skirt, Paul’s hips twisting in a way that made John’s mouth dry.

They found each other in the bedlam. John stared at Paul as Paul’s grin faded, something urgent and dark surfacing in his expression. At once the opening wail of _Twist and Shout_ punched the air. John’s face made Paul laugh. He turned and said something quickly to Maureen, then slipped through the crowd towards John and Rosie.

John immediately grabbed the front of Paul’s jacket and dragged them close together. Grinning, they started to twist, the actions exaggerated and stupid, Paul making faces and waggling his head, John half-yelling the lyrics in his ear. All he focused on was Paul. Paul, coming down but whiskey-loose, raw delight brimming in his expression as he laughed and moved, such a fuckin’ bad dancer that John wanted to press him into, onto something, anything, to keep Paul’s thighs shifting against his as they did the twist like two uncool kids touching someone for the first time.

An undercurrent of heat made John’s hands tremble as he brushed Paul’s slight waist; as he dared himself to feel that taut stomach underneath a tight t-shirt. And Paul, Paul, staring at him with big eyes, those lashes so black they looked damp against his flushed skin, his mouth parted just enough, looking like a fuckin’ pin up, a centre-page spread, young Elvis all smooth-skinned and long-fingered. _You know you look so fine..._ John wound a hand around Paul’s neck to whisper hoarsely in his ear. Paul was nodding before he pulled away, and without a backwards look at Maureen or Rosie or any of the half-tipsy birds in tweed, they slipped away through the crowd. John kept a hand pressed to the back of Paul’s back just for an excuse to _touch,_ forcing himself not to slip too low unless – unless he thought –

The air outside was a kick in the gut. Paul swam into his peripheral vision, one hand coming onto his shoulder, a cigarette miraculously blossoming in his mouth. He thought he imagined a soft touch on his cheek, as if Paul had reached out with his fingers, but the sensation was gone as swiftly as it came.

“Smoke break?” Paul watched John as they caught their breath, his cigarette smouldering untouched. John straightened up. Plucking the cig from Paul, he smirked and took a long drag.

“You’re not a bad twister, son,” John said casually. Behind them the music from the hall throbbed out into the night, the sky having darkened until the points of illumination were reduced to the light pouring out onto the common and the few windows in the surrounds lit from within. Paul looked very beautiful. The thought was matter-of-fact in the way John got when he was a bit drunk. He felt the knowingness throb in his gut, as if his heartbeat had bloomed over his body to pulse like a bruise. He looked at Paul and he wanted.

Paul shrugged, although his cheeks were pink. He took a few steps forward to nudge their shoulders together, then gestured away from the hall with his head. “Want to head? Could always nick some beer from Mike. Go on a walk, or something.”

“What about the girls?” John didn’t care about the girls. Paul might care about the girls. Because he liked girls, very much.

“I don’t really care,” Paul replied brightly. Laughing, John threw an arm around his shoulders. “Naughty lad,” he said lowly, “what will that ginger Maureen do without your scrupulous attention?”

“She’d find Rosie,” he quipped. They started wandering off into the gloom, heading in the general direction of _The_ _Fox & Hounds. _John’s ears pricked at his words.

“’Ey up. Are ye suggestin’ that those two were having it on?”

Paul shrugged again, the action nondescript in John’s peripheral vision. He leaned over to take back the cigarette from John’s mouth and, ignoring John’s noise of discontent, took a drag himself. “Who knows, with birds.” Paul suddenly sounded far too world-weary for a lad of his age.

“Quite sexy, that.” At Paul’s sidelong look, John elaborated, “Two birds, like, _having it on._ Don’t reckon they’d have any trouble with getting the girdles off.”

Paul laughed. Smoke curled from his nose and hung in the warm night air. “No, suppose not... D’ye think they’d practice stuff? On each other, I mean.”

“Together?” John asked, feeling a stir in his belly. Paul nodded into his cigarette. “Maybe. Probably. Why, feeling randy, are ye?”

“No. Bastard.” Moving out from underneath John’s heavy arm, Paul neared the side entrance to the pub. John barely registered the happy clamour inside; he could hear, below the din, the ebb and flow of Betty and Mike as they talked to the customers and pulled pints, and he felt intensely pleased that he could be here, with Paul, instead of in there, being normal.

Paul’s thrown cigarette burned orange on the ground. He caught John’s gaze and raised his eyebrows, exhaling smoke as he did so. “I’ll nip in. Stay here and don’t make a sound, Lennon.”

“Or what?” The words came out more suggestive than he’d anticipated.

Paul visibly swallowed. “I’ll have to shut you up,” he managed, smirking.

John clicked his tongue and leaned against the fence that ran up the side laneway and ‘round the back to the courtyard. “I’d like to see you try, son.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul shoved his hands in his pockets and started up the lane. “Be good,” he sang over his shoulder. John watched him disappear around the corner. The sound of a side door opening followed a moment later.

John stood alone in the dark. Snippets of conversation from the last few days filtered through his mind. Paul, grinning flirtatiously. Paul, saying something all false innocence. Paul, pressed against his front, _you know twist so fine_ thundering in their bones. Sweat and dark lashes and wet mouths and _Christ, god, no, Lennon, you fuckin’ fool._ John privately believed that his grasp on sanity was a tenuous one. He did too much stupid shite to ever be nice and normal and good and what did it mean when Paul looked at him like that? Said those things? Sang to him?

_D'ye ever think about…_

The dreaded feeling of sobriety began to creep into his system. Dealing with Paul without the muted barrier of alcohol suddenly seemed the most terrifying thing in the whole ruddy world. He was too much. Too much for John, who was so little.

“John!”

His head jerked toward the courtyard. Paul’s silhouette was outlined against the back-door light. “Come ‘ead, quick!”

Hands in pockets, he hurried up to where Paul stood at the corner. A couple of beer bottles were clutched in one hand. John took a bottle, the glass clinking, and Paul shushed him, giggling, and mimed going out across the courtyard. Grinning in the dark, John and Paul scarpered over cobblestones and through the back gate. The ground fell away sharply once they were through the gate, the grass thick and spongy. In the dark they found a strange track and followed it a while, lapsing into a companionable silence. The light from the moon was desultory, the night closing in around them in a hush. Paul was warm beside him as their arms brushed.

John popped his beer. His first gulp immediately made him spit out, gagging. “Bleedin’ Christ, what the hell did ye pick up, Paul, you twat!”

“Beer!” Paul was astonished. He quickly opened his own bottle and took a sip. John laughed as Paul started hacking, leaning over to spit on the ground. “Fuck me,” Paul breathed, straightening up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “What _is_ that?”

“Tastes to me like Mike’s trying a home brew.” He held the bottle up to the light. They glanced at each other and shrugged. With the corner of his mouth hitching into a sharp grin, Paul counted them in, _one two three four,_ and as one they tipped their bottles up.

It was fuckin’ awful, truly. John squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to ride it out, his throat threatening to close. He thought vaguely of holding Cyn’s head down, _come on, love, it’s not hard,_ and afterwards, when John had asked her what it was like, she shrugged and said, _I didn’t think about it._ John focused on the end of the bottle – and when the last of the beer slipped out, he broke away with a ragged cheer, raising his arms in victory.

Paul finished a moment later, gasping. John thumped him on the back as he groaned, “ _That_ was something stupid, just so you know.”

“I’m not soft enough to grab the mystery drink in the cellar,” John pointed out. Clearly thinking this was unfair, Paul complained, “I got us grog, didn’t I?”

“Yes, dear,” he simpered and waggled his empty bottle in Paul’s face. He laughed when Paul batted it away, wrinkling his nose. “Sod off, Johnny.”

John pulled away to lob the bottle into the night, Paul following suit. They resumed walking, the alcohol sitting hot and heavy in his gut. It wasn’t unlike drinking something thick, like Guinness, but this punched up his chest and made him shudder. An unsteady arm looped around Paul’s shoulders and drew them close together, hips bumping they wandered, Paul drifting into a vague song beneath his breath.

“That band was shite,” John said after a while.

Paul stopped singing and hummed in acknowledgement. “Drummer wasn’t half bad, though. Good instinctive kick.”

“That singer didn’t do _Twist and Shout_ any bloody justice.” The vestige of adrenaline rose within him, partly due to Paul’s proximity but otherwise because of the beer. John belted out a couple of lines until his throat went hoarse, then he broke off to grin at Paul’s profile and say, “See?”

“Yeah, Johnny,” Paul replied, the words low and warm. They shared a look and he grinned. “He didn’t, though. Your version’s the best.”

“Better than Berry?” That itch for approval abated when Paul said solemnly, “Would I lie to ye?”

“If ye thought you could get away with it, maybe.”

“Often, then.”

John looked at Paul. “Cheeky.”

“So you’ve said,” he said lightly, “a number of times this week, actually. What is this country air doin’ to ye, Lennon? Any longer and you’ll turn into a real fruit.”

 _Half a fruit,_ he thought. “Too late for that, son,” John said clumsily. He teased it out, “ _Too_ late.”

Paul might have laughed had it not been for the uncertain silence that followed. He moved a little closer, his elbow rubbing softly against John’s ribs as they walked. After a beat, he asked, “Did ye want to get those birds drunk?”

“I could ‘ave my way with ‘em without whiskey,” John said tartly, “don’t you fret about that.”

“No, but –“ Paul shifted his shoulders, making the sleeve of John’s leather jacket press against the back of his neck. John was imagining it when Paul tilted into the pressure, his eyes long-lashed and unwavering on the points of their boots dipping in the dark.

“Those kids needed ruining.” The words were harsh on his tongue. John thought of their fuckin’ tweed and hoity-toity airs and that little bird who’d curled her lip when he’d said they were from _Liddypool –_

“That Rosie was a bit of alright,” Paul said, heedless of John’s rant or the way his body hummed in residual anger. “She liked you, I could tell.”

“She asked me to spike the punch,” John admitted, fumbling for a cigarette. He lit it and sucked in a lungful of smoke. “Her hair was bloody dark, weren’t it? Nice and thick. And she knew what she wanted but she didn’t know how to ask fer it. I liked that. That she wanted to know if I would give it to her, and –” Swiftly, like kicking dirt under the rug, “she looked a bit like you.”

Paul stopped walking. John swayed to a halt in front of him. Without his glasses, it was hard to see Paul’s expression, although if the shift in the air was anything to go by, he hadn’t been so subtle about it after all.

“You think I look like a bird,” Paul said flatly.

“Not _a_ bird,” John explained, his tongue thick in his mouth. “ _That_ bird.”

“Oh, right.” He didn’t sound pleased. In fact, he sounded like he was getting bloody angry.

John groaned. “Don’t pull one over on me now, Paul. It was a fuckin’ compliment. _Christ_ , you’re damned if ye do, you’re damned if ye don’t.”

He turned and started walking. The sound of Paul’s footsteps were quick behind him. A tight grip on his upper arm made John whip around, frustration bubbling up inside him, bursting at the seams, because he couldn’t – he didn’t know how to fuckin’ say –

“I’m not a bird, John.” Paul’s voice was slurred and serious, like he was trying to swallow them down and be Nice Paulie but he hadn’t stopped himself in time. In the low light of the moon he looked stark, standing there with his hands in fists by his sides. “I’m a bloke.”

“Do ye think I’m fuckin’ daft?” John snapped. He strode forward and shoved Paul’s chest. “Don’t I fuckin’ know it. Don’t I have to sit here as you, cock of the walk, prick of the walk, prick _tease –_ ”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Paul thundered. “I’m a bloke, John, for fuck’s sake! Not some bird you can scoop up like you did to poor _Cyn,_ who you treat like shit, _by the way –_ ”

“Oh!” John crowed. “No better than you treat good old Dot, then! What, not fit to get a kiss and a cuddle from you? Is she too much of a _girl,_ for ye, Paul, if ye can’t even make the moves on her first.”

Paul’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Listen here,” he started, squaring up to John, “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to but they’re bloody wrong, do ye hear? They’re wrong.”

“Why are they talkin’ in the first place, Paulie?” Everything from the past few months was rising within him at a steady pace, the tide lapping closer and closer to the edge. _No to thinkin’, or no to boys?_ Every quick glance, every cute aside, everything that Paul had dangled in front of him before snatching away boiled and bubbled and John was sick of it, sick of feeling like a dirty, disgusting _pervert,_ touching himself and thinking of Paul; kissing Cyn and thinking of Paul; fucking girls and thinking of fucking _Paul._ His mate, his best mate, his fucking soulmate.

“Shut up.” Paul’s shoulders were shaking.

“What did Dot say to you?” John’s words lampooned, if the way Paul’s face fell was any indication. He jeered, “I heard you this afternoon, you tosser.”

Paul’s voice was low and strained. “That was private.”

“Like I’d care about that!” John shouted. “Don’t change the subject. What did she say to you? Huh?”

“She thinks I’m – Dot asked if I were a –” Paul flushed, his eyes bright and dark. He stared at John as if he were willing the words to choke him.

“Come fuckin’ on, Paul!”

“She thinks I’m queer,” he finished softly.

John’s throat constricted.

“John.” Paul sounded strangled. “John, she’s not – I’m not.” Injecting a laugh into his voice, he spread his hands and shook his head. “I’m not.”

He forced himself to take a drag on his cigarette. “Alright.”

“I’m not.” Anger mounted in his tone. Conflict shone in his expression, though he tried vainly to tamp it into a disgruntled but sure look. “John, I swear.”

“I said _alright_.” Flicking his cigarette away, John exhaled hard enough to burn his throat, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He watched something flicker across Paul’s face; John’s jaw tightened. Narrowing his eyes, he said forcefully, “What?”

Paul had to clear his throat before he spoke. “You don’t think I am… do ye?”

The corresponding shrug sent alarm skittering into Paul’s voice. “John?”

“I dunno, man! I mean – are ye?” He was angry to realize he was _hoping,_ hoping that Paul might say – that he was also a bit –

“No.” Paul was shaking. “I’m not. I’m seeing Dot.”

“Alright.”

“Do you think I am?” His chest rose and fell rapidly, a tendon in his jaw flexing. “A queer. Do you think I’m queer.”

Fury rose like bile in his throat. “Christ!” John snarled. “I don’t care, Paul! Are ye? Aren’t ye? You’re still me best fuckin’ mate, so shut yer gob before I do it for ye.”

The way Paul stared at him sent a bolt of something hot and alarming into the pit of John’s gut. Then in a few quick strides Paul closed the distance between them and grabbed the lapels of John’s leather jacket – and the last thing that John noticed before Paul kissed him was the terrified _want_ in his expression.

Paul’s mouth on his was made to hurt. He pressed into John, his knuckles digging into John’s collarbone, biting his bottom lip, opening his mouth to nudge their tongues together. It was quick and filthy and John dissolved into him, seizing Paul’s own jacket and bringing him even closer, enough that their chests and taut stomachs aligned, hard muscle underscoring the fact that they were _blokes_ and there was nothing gentle about this, nothing that could be explained away by a few drinks. Paul kissed him openly, desperately, and when John held onto his hip, he moaned, tangled and high, against John’s mouth. Desire thundered through him. Paul tilted his head and pulled John down down down, all slick tongues and hitched breaths, until he realized with a deep throb that he was hard, harder than he’d ever been in his fuckin’ life, and it was because of _Paul_.

That alone made his hands shudder, torn between the need to shove Paul away or to crush him closer. Then Paul let out a small _oh_ against his lips and that was all he needed. With a desperation that alarmed him, John took both of Paul’s hips and jerked him forward so they ground briefly together, hardness against hardness, a warning sign, _here be dragons, boy,_ but Paul fuckin’ _shivered –_ an electric tremor that ran like a current beneath John’s questing touch – and curled even tighter, his fists like iron on John’s jacket. They kissed for what felt like a thousand minutes or a hundred hours, until the world was reduced to these things: Paul’s mouth; his palms as they dragged over John’s chest and around the dip of his waist; his needy exhalations against John’s lips as they kissed in a way that John only ever _thought_ people were kissed.

After a very long time Paul pulled away. Their noses were pressed together as they panted against each other’s mouths. In the gloom Paul’s lips looked swelled and red, bruised where John had bitten them, wet where he’d run his tongue. Paul swallowed, his throat bobbing languidly. John pressed the side of his thumb to the divot of Paul’s throat, where his pulse beat quickly against John’s wrist. The tenderness that he felt made him lean forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Paul’s neck. He breathed in the scent of smoke, beer, and sweat, and his heart punched in his chest when he murmured, “Fuck, Paul,” into his skin.

Paul aborted a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat and tilted his head to the side, allowing John to kiss him there over and over, sucking just until the blood ran sharply to the surface before smoothing his tongue over and beginning again. All the while Paul’s hands fisted in the shirt at John’s waist, twisting the fabric until his hand brushed against exposed skin and John groaned brokenly. With a hitched breath Paul did it again, this time drawing the flat of his hand up John’s back, blindly mapping the damp, warm skin, fingers tightening against his shoulder blades.

“Paul,” John growled, half in warning. His groin throbbed, the small of his back pooling with heat. It felt as if someone had tipped his head out and Paul had plunged in until John burned only with the need to kiss him again, this time horizontally so he could shove a hand down the front of his jeans and –

“Do you…” Darkness shrouded them. Paul’s voice was heavy between them, his pulse quickening against John’s fingers. “Earlier, were y’really –”

“Christ, d’ye really wanna chat about it?” John ignored the spike of nerves and kissed Paul again. He slipped his tongue into Paul’s mouth and tightened his grip on the short hair at the back of Paul’s neck, the place where he _felt_ Paul’s skin tremble, all warm and damp and needy, and Paul allowed this, let him claim his wanting mouth until he moaned lowly and John grinned against his lips.

“Mm.” Surfacing, Paul blinked at him in such a way that reminded John of how much he needed to see Paul pressed against sheets, all dark lashes and creamed skin. He remembered the thatch of hair that trailed down Paul’s stomach and had to bit his lip hard. Breathing unsteadily, Paul’s eyes dipped to watch his mouth. When he caught John’s eye, something intense and flirtatious flickered in his expression. “We should –”

“Yeah,” John blurted. “Yes.”

Then they were laughing, the sound so breathless and exhilarated that John couldn’t wipe the fuckin’ grin off his face. His gaze was glued to Paul, who never looked as open as he did then, hair mussed where John had ran his hands through it, eyes big and black as he stared at John. His grin didn’t fade when they gradually stopped laughing. Paul took a few steadying breaths and licked his lips. His palm felt heavy and warm on John’s back when he moved away and left John back in his own skin.

Paul pulled out two cigarettes. The ritual seemed stilted, considering John was hard and his skin was all hot and sweat-damp, but he let Paul light them anyway. When Paul walked closer he gave a half-hitched smile, and murmured, “Smoke break, Lennon?” before he slipped the cigarette between John’s lips.

Reaching up to take it, John exhaled a cloud of smoke. He watched every shift of Paul’s expression until Paul flushed under the weight of his gaze. “Coming?” he asked lightly, betraying the shiver in his tone.

John was hoarse. “Aye.”

They began to walk back towards the pub, guided only by a distant pinprick of light that must have been the back door. John pressed their arms together, greedy for the heat of Paul’s body. His cock tightened at the thought and he had to disguise his want by inhaling sharply on his cigarette.

He only recognized the exhausted pull on his muscles when they finally reached the house. They slipped through the back gate, flicked their cigs into the dark, then crept in and upstairs. Everything was silent; only the fridge ticked softly from the kitchen. The stairs creaked as they went up, John trying and failing to avoid looking at Paul’s arse. The attic was warm and quiet. John went over to open the window and to take a few gulps of air for fortitude. He heard Paul close the door behind them. Anticipation trickled down his spine.

Turning quickly, John sought Paul’s eyes in the dark. He was still hard, although the beer and adrenaline made him all loose and wanting. Paul caught his eye across the room and licked his lips. And slowly, like he was waiting for the punchline, Paul pulled his jacket off his shoulders

John stared at him. With a casual, almost languid, expression, Paul shrugged his jacket to the floor and started on his t-shirt. He pulled it off differently to John: both hands took the hem and dragged it up his torso, exposing skin inch by teasing inch. When Paul emerged, his hair was tangled on his forehead and it brushed against his eyelashes in such a way that made John’s mouth grow dry.

Whenever there was a chance to strip, John took it. He moved like a starving man: ripping his jacket off and chucking it away, then grabbing the neck of his jumper and t-shirt to tug it over his head. Without pause his hands went to the buckle on his belt – and Paul visibly swallowed at the sight, his eyes dropping to John’s crotch.

Throat tightening like a fist, John’s mouth parted as he undid his belt and popped the first button on his jeans. He shucked them with no reservation and kicked his shoes free at the last moment.

For a split second, he felt like a fool. There he was, jocks only, his cock fat against his hip, standing across from a _bloke._ Not any bloke, not Stu or that sailor a few months back, but _Paul._ Cool air touched his skin, reminding him of how warm he still was, as if Paul’s touched had burned right to his core. Paul started at him in a way that made him feel raw, uncharted.

“Paul.” His voice was low and rough.

“Yeah,” Paul breathed, and it sounded like something had at long last broken away.

Heart hammering, John moved to sit on the bed. He held Paul’s gaze as he lay back against the pillows, folding one arm beneath his head. The alcohol thrummed only distantly in his system. Paul swallowed again, then advanced until he reached John’s side. Paul fumbled with his jeans, slipping them over thighs that were scattered in dark hair.

Paul was hard. The sight sent an unprecedented bolt of sheer heat straight through John’s body. Paul’s cock strained against white underwear, a damp patch at the front making John’s whole chest draw in, his own groin _throb,_ his mouth grow wet with the strangled desire to somehow touch or mouth or taste –

“C’mere,” John growled, taking a hold of Paul’s wrist and drawing him down. Paul went eagerly, instantly pressing himself to John’s front, his cock nudging John’s, and _fuck._ “Oh _Christ_ , oh Paul.” They kissed hard enough to make John feel lightheaded, his entire being thrumming with white heat, Paul’s skin so smooth beneath his hands, shuddering as John in a moment of madness grabbed one arse cheek and tugged him forward, their cocks rubbing just _so_ – 

Paul groaned deeply into John’s mouth and ground down with abandon, his arms beginning to shake with the effort of holding himself up. Running his other hand up one of Paul’s biceps, John pulled him down so their chests met. Paul’s nipples were touching his, their cocks dragged. A wet heat came in great gulps over John’s body, making him kiss Paul harder, biting his lips, running his tongue along along the places that made Paul go, "Fuck, John."

Paul’s hips moved sharply, with purpose, as he made these little sounds against John’s mouth. His eyes were liquid black when he pulled away to press their noses together, capable only of panting brokenly as they watched their cocks trapped between them. An insistent pinprick of heat narrowed John’s mind, rapidly singling out the long heat of his cock, the feel of Paul beneath a layer of cotton. Instinctively John grabbed his hips and guided those thrusts and watched as Paul’s thighs slide further apart so he was straddling him, fuckin’ _riding him,_ and the image made John moan low in his chest, almost choked with how good Paul looked, how fuckin’ _lewd._ Paul’s stomach was tacky with sweat, his muscles shifting beneath smooth skin that John dig his fingers into, slipping his thumbs beneath the waistband of their underwear – then with a bitten-off groan Paul’s hand slithered down John’s belly to tug their jocks aside just enough to –

“ _Fuck,”_ Paul murmured helplessly. He kissed John hard enough to bruise, his thrusts becoming erratic; and John realized he was murmuring, _Paul, yeah, come on me, come on,_ adrenaline and lust punching in his throat. He couldn’t tear away from Paul’s sweat-damp eyelashes, the furrow between those slender brows, the open wetness of his red lips as he panted and kissed him and had there ever been anything like this ever had anyone ever felt what John was feeling in this fuckin’ single moment –

He reached for Paul’s cock and took them both in his hand, and the pressure made them both bite down a shout, Paul’s shoulders curling as he thrust into John’s fist, and then they were coming. Heat rolled through him like a thunderstorm, spilling up and tipping him over the edge, _fuck,_ _Paul._ John slumped back, breathing hard through his mouth.

Paul lay boneless on top of him. The air stung with the acrid scent of come and sweat. John tried to steady his breathing. After a while, Paul shifted just enough to kiss John, and the action was so smooth and firm that John immediately wound his arms around Paul’s middle and drew him in, his legs parting to let Paul slip between them as they kissed languidly. Paul tasted like sour beer but John chased it with his tongue, sliding it over Paul’s fat bottom lip and eliciting a shuddering breath.

 _How could this be real?_ John wondered distantly. How could this be, after an adolescence of fingering birds at dances or letting Stu toss him off, how could this be so… A word trembled in the back of his mind. John pulled away from Paul, their mouths parting with a wet sound. They looked at each other. He’d never seen Paul’s eyes that blown, so dark they seemed depthless, his whole face flushed, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. Paul’s expression was fringed with uncertainty; John could almost taste the excuses that hovered between them.

Shifting his weight, Paul made a face at John. He realized that their jocks were sodden, sticking to their skin where they still lay pressed together.

“Fuckin’ hell,” John wondered, moving so that Paul moved beside him, both of their heads on the pillow. Wrinkling his nose, John investigated the front of his underwear. “Bleedin’ Christ. What did ye do to me, Paul? I feel like I’ve been swimming.”

Paul laughed like it’d been punched out of him. Relief swept over them both, enough that John turned to catch Paul’s eye, grinning as Paul said, “Could say the same to you. Coming all over me with no bloody abandon –”

“Oh, that was me, was it?” Affection gripped his throat. With a playful growl John pounced on top of Paul, finding his most ticklish spots and going for the kill. Paul squirmed beneath him, trying to smother his laughter, going, “No, Johnny, stop, you fucker – _Stop.”_

Breathlessly John leaned down to kiss him. Paul opened his mouth and smiled into it, resting one hand on the side of John’s neck. They kissed until Paul broke it off to say in a business-like tone, “Right, you take my jocks off before they merge into me skin.”

John did as he was told, shifting up to peel away their underwear. The sound they made when they hit the floor made them both wince. Leaning on his side and propped up on one arm, John dragged his gaze up Paul’s nude body. The short trail of dark hair on his lower belly was damp with sweat, his cock resting sensually between his legs. Paul’s stomach was taut, his chest broad. And as John stared, Paul’s nipples visibly stiffened. Paul watched him, his eyes half-mast, one arm folded beneath his head. He was letting John do this; he was letting him drink his fill and savour the way it ran down his throat, quenching that rough, dry part inside him that had always been restless and lonely, spurred on by his own strangeness and inadequacy. Paul was looking at him like he was enough.

The distant sound of a cock crowing made them both laugh. John made to pull the sheets over them, but Paul stopped him and said, “What about the clothes?”

“Whaddabout them,” John mumbled. He settled down and wound an arm around Paul’s midsection. “Leave ‘em.”

“What about _Mike,”_ Paul said pointedly. John was quiet for a moment before he groaned and pulled the pillow out from Paul and buried his face in it. “Sod Mike,” he said indistinctly.

He felt Paul get up and listened to him gather up their clothes. John emerged from the pillow to watch Paul pick through the room. His legs were long and white in the gloom, his waist coming to a taper just before his firm arse. John felt himself stir. Stuffing their clothes into a duffel on the ground, Paul turned to find John staring at him. To his credit, he didn’t flush. Instead he raised an eyebrow and said in a wry tone, “We’re sleeping now, John.”

“Mm.” John ran his hands over Paul’s skin as he got into bed. Tugging the sheets over them both, Paul grabbed the pillow back and lay down, shifting for a bit to get comfortable. In the dim light Paul appeared smudged at the corners, an effigy of a boy in black. When he turned over to face him, John realized that the side of his neck was bruised red.

Paul shivered as John reached out to touch. Blinking slowly, Paul whispered, “It’ll be fun explaining that one tomorrow.”

“Aye, that Maureen…” John smiled as Paul sniggered.

Sleep seemed very far away. They lay facing each other, the drowsy tide lapping, patiently pulling them under. John tried to hold onto this moment for as long as he possibly could, Paul’s features growing clearer as the room began to lighten, his half-closed eyes and warm mouth soft enough to make John itch with the urge to _touch_. Here, in this cramped bed, there was no use in wondering about what might happen after this, or the next, or anything other than Paul or John, and the way they waited for each other to fall asleep.

* * *

 John woke with a start to a series of knocks on the door.

“Good morning, lads!” Mike called cheerfully as he backed into the room.

John, whose head was fuckin’ pounding, at least had the sense of mind to instinctively whip the sheets further over their bare bodies. When Mike turned around, tea tray in hand, to smile at John, he tried to convey a grimace that absolutely did not betray his hangover. The lingering taste of beer made his mouth feel like a fuckin’ sewer. Paul remained prone, face buried in the pillow.

“Have at it.” The two mugs of tea on the tray steamed. Mike came over and put the tray on an upturned crate near the foot of the bed.

“Alright, Mike,” John croaked.

“Lovely morning,” he boomed happily, straightening up. Wiping his hands on the tea towel permanently attached to his shoulder, he noticed Paul. Looking at John, he made a face and said, “He alright, then, son?”

“Paulie’s feeling poorly,” John deadpanned.

Coming to his own defence, Paul gave a muffled groan.

Mike smiled sympathetically. With a shrewder look than John was expecting, he tapped the side of his nose. “The dance went down a treat, I take it.”

Struggling to come up with a reply that would absolve them of any guilt, John settled on a wan smile. Mike chuckled and started out of the door. “Fresh air for you two. I’ve got some work for you today. Don’t be long; Betty’s putting toast on.” With a final smile, Mike closed the door behind him.

With Mike gone, John could bury into Paul’s side, who groaned again as if he were in pain. John put on an impression of mock concern. “Too much wine for ser?”

“Bugger off,” Paul mumbled. He let John pat his head consolingly.

They lay together for a few minutes, the temptation of drifting into a doze unfurling along John’s limbs. His eyes drifted closed. Paul breathed slowly beside him, the vague sounds of the kitchen floating up from downstairs. The builder’s tea Mike had brought up scented the air with bergamot, nice and strong, and with the grace of a beer-sodden man John tiredly unwound himself from the sheets and picked up a mug. Cradling it to his chest, he sat cross-legged on the bed, assessing the smooth expanse of Paul’s back.

When Paul turned over his eyes were squeezed closed. “I feel,” he said slowly, “like an elephant is holding a party in my skull.”

“Nah, s’just Mike,” John quipped. He sipped his tea and blinked sweetly as Paul opened one eye to glare at him.

Betty yelled upstairs, something indistinct like _breakfast, boys,_ which made Paul groan anew, covering his face with his hands. John raised an eyebrow at him. “Christ, we didn’t drink that much.”

Paul lowered his hands from his eyes. “M’not thinking about the that,” he replied, muffled.

An image from last night flickered through his mind. John had another sip of tea, delaying the inevitable. When Paul’s hand rested on his thigh, he looked over quickly enough to nearly crack his neck.

Rolling his eyes, Paul grinned lopsidedly. “Ye rub one out with your mate and suddenly he thinks it’s wedding bells.”

John could hardly handle the sense of sheer _relief_ that swelled within him. He leaned over to plonk the mug on the floor, then leaped onto Paul’s front to press him into the mattress. In the ensuing struggle, he managed to duck beneath Paul’s arms and, as Paul laughed lowly, pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. Paul tasted as terribly as John felt, but he didn’t care didn’t _care._ John kissed him deeply, dragging a hand through Paul’s hair to tip his head back, their thighs legs entangled, his long body leaning against Paul’s side. Paul responded softly, his mouth pink and full in the warm morning light. When they broke apart, the sight of Paul beneath him made John feel utterly mad.

“Johnny,” he said lowly.

“Boys!” An accompanying stomp on the stairs made them spring apart. John stared first at the door, then at Paul, who promptly started laughing. When John frowned and said, “Ease up, McCartney,” Paul only shook his head and managed, “Your bloody _hair,_ John.”

True enough, after John had struggled out of bed and over to the mirror on the wall, he looked just like he’d had a good, rough shag. John smirked and caught Paul’s eye in the reflection. “Ye reckon Mike and Betty’d appreciate this look?”

Paul stopped laughing and went white. “John,” he started.

“M’jokin’, Macca.” He didn’t have it in him to be irritated. John merely turned around and commenced digging through his duffel for clean clothes. His mouth felt all hot and tender from Paul’s kiss; he kept finding excuses to brush against his lips as he dressed, feeling a thrill when the skin bloomed.

After Paul had been coaxed out of bed and pulled on some clothes, they went traipsing downstairs. John felt dull and sticky from last night, in dire need of a wash and, in an ideal world, some hair of the dog. Before they turned into the kitchen, John quickly pressed a hand to Paul’s lower back.

If Betty noticed Paul’s flush she didn’t comment. Mike was sitting at the head of the table as she bustled about, neatly putting down a toast rack and some pots of jam. She eyed them as they sloped over to the table and sat down, her hair already done for the today, looking fresher than John reckoned he’d ever been in his entire life. He took a large bite of dry toast and watched Paul across the table.

Paul was mussed, his hair fluffy with sleep, his eyes half-closed as he put toast on his plate and picked up the butter knife. His cheeks were still warm, although John would be kidding himself to think it still had anything to do with him. He had a mad desire to touch Paul’s bare ankle with his feet beneath the table, but settled on observing the neat, efficient way with which Paul buttered his toast.

Betty sat opposite Mike and started up a light conversation. “You don’t look well, Paul,” she commented, putting the teapot down in the middle of the table. “What time did you boys get in, hmm?”

They shared a quick look, Paul’s brows crinkling. “Um, it must have been…”

“Ten?” John suggested.

“Mm, yeah, that sounds right.” Paul’s expression was as innocent as they came. He quirked his eyebrows at the teapot and said, “Pour me a cuppa, John, would ye.”

Pushing his glasses further up his nose, John casually reached for the pot. With a tilt of his head and a patient look at Paul, he started to fill a cup. At first Paul gazed at the pouring tea with a distant expression, chewing his toast, but as the tea came closer to the lip of the cup he looked at John in alarm. Putting on a _silly me!_ face, John stopped pouring. He stuck a teaspoon in the sugar and held it questioningly over the very fully cup.

“Sugar, Paulie?”

“Ta,” Paul mumbled. John put the sugar in and promptly stuck the spoon back in the bowl. Lifting it again, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Another?”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Alright,”

With restraint, John stirred the sugar in. He then held up the milk jug.

“Paulie – milk?”

Paul was staring at him, a slow smile creeping across his lips. “No, thanks,” he said coolly.

“Whoops!” The milk slopped dangerously at the very top of the cup. John put the jug down with a thump and gestured in exasperation. “Look what you’ve gone and done, Paul, for heaven’s sake.”

“Whoops,” Paul echoed. He shot John a teasing grin as he pulled the cup towards him. John’s foot pressed against his beneath the table, and his stomach tightened dangerously when Paul pushed back.

“I wasn’t wrong about ‘the nerk twins’,” Mike commented gruffly, watching them in amusement. He adjusted his newspaper and shared a glance with Betty, whose mouth was pursed against smiling. From the living room came the sound of a jazz record, Armstrong or someone, and she started humming under her breath as she picked up the jam.

“Paul said you’d let us play.” John aimed this at Mike, who swallowed a mouthful of tea and said, “Oh, yes. From what I’ve heard you two are quite the talent. A Saturday night in the tap room would be good practice.”

“We don’t need practice,” John scoffed. “We’re already the best bloody band in Liverpool.”

“John,” Paul hissed, as Betty smiled and said warningly, “Language, Mister Lennon.”

“Sorry,” he replied, not meaning it. Looking back at Mike, John took another bite of toast. “Whaddaya want? Rock n’ roll? Something sweet for Paulie’s pretty voice?” Paul scowled at him from across the table.

Mike folded his newspaper and set it aside. Taking off his reading glasses, he leaned his arm against the table and glanced between them with interest. “What were you boys going to play?”

“ _Be Bop a Lula,”_ Paul and John answered immediately. John always thought Paul sounded best on that song, his voice lilting behind John’s own strong sound, Paul _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing to the invisible audience in Pete’s back room. They’d incorporated it into the repertoire months ago, mainly because the girls went wild for those soppy sorts of songs. John did too, if he wanted to acknowledge that slightly faggy side of him. He’d spent countless hours on the floor of his bedroom, listening crooners and ballads; he’d rather die than admit it.

“No, no,” Mike said, “that’s too slow. It’s a Saturday night, lads.”

“But it’s Paul’s best song!” John exclaimed.

Paul crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “You think we should play something quicker?”

“Up-tempo,” Mike corrected, as John went, “What-tempo?”

“The speed,” he elaborated, taking a sip of tea. “You want to start with something quick, to get the people hooked. Then, once you’ve warmed them up, sing something slower.”

“And you end with something fast,” Paul finished, looking at John, who made a _well, whaddaya know_ face and said, “Smart, that.”

Ignoring John’s facetious tone, Paul rubbed the side of his nose and frowned in thought. “Well, we could always sing…”

“Orbison?” John suggested. Paul made a considering face, drawn to the idea.

“What else do you two have?” Mike asked.

They looked at each other for a moment, mentally flicking through their go-to songs. Most of the shite they pulled out were to the benefit of a village fete or the rare gigs in town, nothing to write home about, but enough to make people move, which was the whole _point_ of rock n’ roll. Both Paul and John liked things that were quick and dirty, tricky enough to play that it’d warrant shutting themselves up in John’s room for hours, Paul leaning close to show him how to play B7, his eyelashes smudged in the warm light, glancing up to smile softly at John. The memory made his skin prickle. After last night, they might be able to practice other things… horizontally, even.

Paul snapped his fingers. “We do _The World is Waiting for The Sunrise._ It’s the Les Paul and Mary Ford version.”

“I remember that song,” Betty said with a smile. She had her knitting on her lap and was taking a sip of tea.

Mike looked intrigued, but John knew he wasn’t fully sold. “’Ang on,” he said and pushed his chair back. When he returned with his guitar from upstairs, Paul said, “Yeah, John’ll show you!”

Sitting back down, John began tuning intently, watching his hands move over the frets. He glanced between Paul and Mike, then started lightly strumming the melody. John’s fingers didn’t slip on the frets, but being this close to the guitar made his head ache. He stuck it out until the chorus. When he stopped, Mike was nodding and Betty complimented him on his playing.

He looked down at his hands. “Thanks,” John mumbled.

“Open with that one,” Mike decided. “ _Then_ go into _Be Bop a Lula._ After that you should take requests, keep them all happy.” He smiled at John. “You’re a real player, son.”

All this kindness was making him fidget uncomfortably. John shrugged and stared down at the strings, running his thumb over his battered guitar. The conversation shifted into Paul asking Mike about his music experience. It was only later, when John surfaced to eat the rest of his toast, that Paul touched their feet together under the table.

* * *

‘Work’ turned out to be unloading crates of booze in the courtyard. The strange weather from yesterday had kicked up a notch: enormous black clouds gathered on the bottle-blue horizon, the sun streaming down to boil them where they stood. Stripped to their plain white t-shirts and jeans and sweating out their hangover, John thought it’d been a stupid idea to have a nice bath after breakfast. They were filthy as labourers now.

Paul had bossily claimed the fresh water for himself. He’d grinned right in John’s face before swanning into the bathroom, stomping on John’s foot when he stuck it through the door to jam it, falling about as John howled. John had settled for loitering around outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Paul in the nude. When Paul had finally emerged, he’d done so in a cloud of steam, swatting John away with his towel with a nervous smile, glancing up and down the corridor as John tried to crowd him against the wall. _You don’t think this looks bad?_ Paul had half-laughed, eyes sharp.

“I don’t care.” John pressed a thumb to Paul’s neck. Paul bit his lip as the love bite bloomed red and tender.

“You should,” Paul had muttered, but when John had scoffed something about Paul being _worse than a bird, honest to Christ,_ Paul darted in quick as a minnow to kiss him.

That hot coil in his gut hadn’t abated. If anything, the sight of Paul hauling things around made John prickle in a nervous heat. Paul, skin damp with sweat, mouth parted as he panted in exertion, dark hair curling against his forehead, the muscles in his arms shifting as he worked – that was real, that was _now_.

How the hell was John to know that one fuckin’ kiss would make him want to crawl out of his skin?

“Give us a hand,” Paul complained. He straightened up with a crate in his arms, bottles clinking. He peered at John and said irritably, “I know you’re a lazy bastard, Lennon, but come on.”

“Alright, alright.” Grumbling under his breath, John resumed work. The delivery lorry had come towards the tail end of breakfast, Mike going down to open the pub before lunch, leaving them to move a whole van’s worth of grog into the back room. John guessed that was where Paul had nicked the beer last night: those same bottles were huddled in a corner, looking ominously cloudy in the light of day; enough that John had asked Paul if he’d meant to try and poison them. He looked at them every time he went inside to stack the crates. The sight of them alone made him feel fuckin’ nauseous.

They passed each other in the doorway. John paused to lean against the wall, lighting up a cig as he did so. When Paul turned around and made to bitch some more, John drawled, “Shut it, Macca. A man needs his smokes.”

“Light us one, then.” Pushing back a mop of hair with his forearm, Paul came to lean against the opposite wall. He accepted the cig, “Ta, John,” gaze drifting towards the courtyard.

There was electricity in the air, like the deep breath before a cracking thunderstorm, making John feel edgy and somewhat nervous. He smoked and watched Paul, his hair falling into his eyes. It was soft and damp without grease, because Paul had stopped him as he combed his hair this morning to murmur, _Leave it. Y’look… good._

Paul felt the weight of his gaze. He looked over and smiled over his cigarette.

“Is this how it’s gonna be, then?” John blurted.

Flicking the ash off the end of his cig, Paul frowned, as guileless as ye please. “What’re you talking about?”

 _This_ wasn’t an _us,_ and he’d be a fool to admit as much. “You an’ me,” John said roughly, “in and out.”

“What?”

“Cyn’s a fuckin’ pain.” John took a sharp drag of his cigarette and quickly exhaled. “She’s a warm body, ye know. Can’t hold a conversation to save her life, stupid cow.”

“You thinking of dumping her?” Paul asked, still frowning. He glanced down at his cig and flicked it again. “I thought you said she looked like Bardot or something.”

 _Leggy and that,_ John remembered describing her. “Or something,” he muttered darkly.

Paul raised an eyebrow and huffed out a laugh. “Help me out, John. What are you on about?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” He chucked his cig into the courtyard angrily and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fuckin’ nothing.”

A confused pause settled between them. John studiously avoided Paul’s gaze, although he could feel Paul staring at his profile. His cigarette burned low in his fingers. Paul finished it off in two drags, then threw it on the cobblestones. John felt Paul push off from the wall; and if the way his skin pricked, Paul was still staring at him.

“We should get back,” Paul said lightly.

Typical fucking Paul. Oh, we mustn’t disturb the peace! John snorted and straightened abruptly, shoving past Paul and back into the courtyard. Paul followed a moment later and they started work wordlessly, the sun pounding onto their backs.

The longer they were out there the tighter John wound. His skin was sticky with heat, his eyes constantly drawn to Paul’s arms or Paul’s mouth or the love bite on his neck, as plain as anything, fuckin’ parading about like a real queer, wearing John’s brand as if he didn’t care in the slightest… What would happen if John pinned him right now? If he plastered him against the wall and made Paul shudder and shake and cry out – his eyes all black and wanting, those pink lips kiss-bitten and sore, stomach muscles jumping as John dragged his tongue toward his belt buckle – what would he do then? Can’t have that, can ye, Paulie? Could only happen if John were a girl. If he batted his lashes and crossed his legs and simpered at every stupid fuckin’ thing that came out of McCarmley’s big gob. _Oh, you’re so funny, Paul!_

Frustration curled in his muscles. John grit his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He forced himself to work mechanically, thinking in a slightly off-kilter way _well at least Mimi will be happy that I’ve found a new job,_ because there was a fat chance the Silver bloody Beetles would get anywhere now. Two fags in a band. Christ save ‘em.

A rumble of thunder made him start.

Slate grey clouds hung heavy and low, more thunder signalling the downpour that had threatened for days. John was on the other side of the courtyard by the wood pile, which was sheltered by a small roof affixed to the W.C. He looked across at Paul, who stood in the doorway to the back room. They blinked at each other, then looked up at the sky as another enormous rumble made John put his crate down and step away from the heavy rain that began to fell, great splatters that sounded like someone being slapped repeatedly or two people fucking.

John wiped a hand over his forehead, which was growing damp with the off-spray from the cobblestones. Across the way, Paul hovered, glancing up at the sky. From this distance, he couldn’t quite see Paul’s expression, but he recognized the way he might have bitten his lip, and then he was darting across the courtyard through the rain.

“Run, Paul, run!” Laughing at the sight of Paul slipping all over the cobblestones, John shouted, “Hurry up, ye fucker!”

Swearing like a sailor, Paul dove for the shelter. His footsteps slapped on the wet ground, his hair already sodden, laughing breathlessly. Catching himself on the back wall, Paul leaned against it and gasped, grinning wide enough to make John’s chest  _boom._

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” John said after a pause.

“You looked lonely over here,” Paul replied tartly. He straightened against the wall and ran a hand over his wet face.

The rain pounded down, a real spring special, and the thunder snarled in the humid air. He couldn’t hear anything except the drumming on the tin roof above them and Paul’s uneven breaths. John stared at the colour rising in Paul’s cheeks and thought _Lennon, you fucking fool._

“Coulda stood here alone,” he said flatly. “No need for ye to rescue me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Paul moved to the edge of the shelter to peer up at the pouring rain. When he turned to catch John’s eye, the corner of his mouth hitched into a smile.

“M’never wrong,” John replied reflexively. He felt strange and lightheaded by their proximity, adrenaline threading through his veins to make his heart pound in his throat.

“See, I know you, Johnny,” Paul started casually, the use of John’s nickname making his pulse skip, “and I reckon you’re wrong on one crucial point.”

Slow and stupid Lennon, late on the uptake. “And what’s that?”

Paul licked his lips. After a pause, he slowly closed the space between them. John watched helplessly, anxiety making him swallow as Paul came closer and closer and stopped just in front of him. He felt like he was going to fuckin’ shatter. He felt like a fuckin' nutter. The subtle hitch in Paul’s breathing gave away more than words ever could.

Those same lyrics kept tripping through his head, Elvis' voice sultry and smooth,  _you’re gonna set me on fire._

For a long moment, they only stared at each other. Paul’s mouth parted softly, drawing John’s gaze down to those damp lips. With a heady start he realized that Paul’s bottom lip was swollen a little; and he remember biting down to elicit a strangled moan, Paul arching against him with abandon.

John didn’t conceal the open want that simmered in his expression. Paul’s breath hitched once more, his eyes so dark and big. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with wonder. “You really don’t care.”

“No.” John swallowed again. “I don’t.”

“I don’t know how not to care,” Paul said. His eyes tremored. Shaking his head abruptly, Paul rubbed a hand over his face again, sluicing off more water. “Dot, she –”

“Screw Dot.” Urgency whipped in his veins. “Get rid of her. She’ll only bring you down.”

Paul dropped his hand and John was startled to see anger flare in his gaze. “What about Cynthia?” he demanded. “You’ll drop her, just like that? For what?”

“For _you,”_ John pressed. He reached out and grabbed Paul’s shoulders, as by sheer force alone he could make him _see._ He skin was so hot beneath his hands, sending his thoughts into a confused tangent of Paul’s hard stomach and his taut thighs and the way he played guitar and his voice when it soared up on, _And you’ll be mine, you will be mine._ “Fuck Cyn. Screw Dot. We don’t need ‘em!”

“We _can’t_ , John.” The words punched him in the gut. “People already think that I’m – what’d people _say?”_

“They’re saying _shite,”_ he snapped, tightening his grip on Paul. He leaned in as if to press their foreheads together, stopping short because how fuckin’ daft was he, how _soft_ was that. Fury rose, hot and sour, in his throat. This was him, all him. Fuckin’ Paul up and turning him upside down. Good old Lennon. Can’t leave well enough alone. His anger fell away to desperation and he clutched Paul hard. “Fuck, don’t listen to me, Paul. I don’t know what I mean. I never do – I’m fucking this up. I –”

“John, John.” Paul moved in and then they were hugging. John immediately curled into Paul’s body, so slight and hard against his, and breathed in the scent of smoke and sweat and rain. It felt like someone had a fist around his throat, stoppering up everything he wanted to say, everything he _needed_ Paul to know.

He thought, _this is it,_ and, _you are here,_ and _God, I want you._

Instead of giving voice to the dangerous creature that lurked within him, he mumbled against Paul’s damp neck, “Look at me, holding you like a bloody girl.”

“Can’t say I mind,” Paul said, sounding so honest that John's heart skipped.

John forced himself to pull away. Paul blinked at him slowly. Then, with a darting look towards the house, Paul kissed him.

He tasted warm and wet and somewhat salty. John immediately opened his mouth to him, drawing Paul close. His skin rippled with an electric longing, the sort that was rapidly becoming associated only, only with Paul. He smoothed a tongue along Paul’s plump bottom lip and shuddered at the quiet moan that lingered between them, hovering in the spaces of each desperate kiss. Then Paul groaned and suddenly pulled back, leaving John to blink dazedly.

They tried to catch their breath. Paul glanced over his shoulder. John leaned back against the wall of the W.C. and watched him, something warm and full blossoming in his chest. Paul met his eyes and John felt his blood stir.

“Watch it, you,” Paul said lowly.

John grinned, nice and slow, his eyes at half-mast. “And if I don’t?”

Straightening up, Paul put on a casual air. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered over, watching John with eyes that burned like coal. When he came close, he leaned in just enough to make John’s mouth part in anticipation, then murmured, “All bets are off.”

“Oh, I don’t mind me chances,” John managed.

Paul laughed, encouraging John to follow suit. They sounded fuckin’ mad, slumping against the wall, competing with the drum of rain. It thundered all around them, ensconcing them in a pool of warm damp, enough of a shroud that John was emboldened to touch a hand to the dip of Paul’s waist. His throat, when he swallowed, made John groan, “Fuck me, Cyn’s got a lot of work t’do when we get back.”

“Charming, Lennon.” Laughter shone in Paul’s eyes. His mouth quirked into a wicked, lopsided grin, eyebrows raising, cheeks pink. “You're going to keep the poor girl on her knees, are ye?”

“Provided the spot’s not taken.”

Paul bit his lip so suddenly and painfully that John’s cock jerked.

“Steady on, Paulie,” he said, “I’ll keep ye spot warm.”

“Fuck off,” he said, but he couldn’t sound pissed off if he tried. Hiding his grin, Paul turned to lean his hip against the wall of the W.C. to face John, picking a thumbnail across the peeling green paint of the windowsill. This close, Paul’s body was warm and slightly damp, his dark hair curling against his forehead. He glanced up and caught John’s eye, and John’s heart clenched when Paul flushed even further.

“Look,” he said, nudging John’s knee with his own. John followed his gaze to the windowsill. The glass of the W.C.’s window was painted over for privacy, but generations of pub patrons had left their calling cards as they loitered for a smoke. They looked over the variety of ‘R+L’s and ‘UNITED FOREVER’s. John smirked and pointed out a poorly carved dog taking a piss.

“Creative,” Paul grinned.

“As an artist,” John said gruffly, putting on the voice he reserved for taking the mick out of Stu, “I say these are clever depictions of Caversham’s varied night life.”

Nodding sagely, Paul said, “Very Cezanne.”

John elbowed in the ribs. “Cheeky.” Struck with an idea, he turned away to peer at the ground around them.

“What’re y’doing?” Paul asked.

“Need a knife,” he replied indistinctly. Extricating his glasses, John put them on and blinked a few times. “Christ, that’s better,” he muttered. They poked about for a bit before Paul said, “Here, this’ll do.” It was a shoddy penknife he’d found near a stack of old wooden crates.

Paul went back to the windowsill and flicked the rusty thing open. Skin humming, John came up close behind him to lean an arm on the wall beside Paul’s head, which was ducked in concentration. Paul had found a blank spot in the green paint and started to carve. John watched him openly, his heartbeat very loud in his ears.

“Get closer, why don’t you,” Paul murmured. He flicked his eyes up to catch John, who flushed instantly.

“Shurrup,” John grunted. Just to be difficult he did move even closer, leaning his head down to watch Paul work, feeling the curve of Paul’s waist by his hand. He itched to grab it, to touch his damp skin through his thin shirt, to feel the jut of his boyish hip and the coarse, dark hair on his lower belly. Swallowing, John looked away to focus on Paul’s profile.

After a while, Paul leaned back. Heedless of John’s eyes on him, he said, casual as anything, “Your opinion, Mister Lennon?”

With great difficulty, he tore himself away. There on the windowsill, beneath someone else’s wonky heart, and beside what could have been a sheep, was a small carving.

 

>  L / M.C. 1960

“Something to remember us by,” Paul said quietly.

Something tangled and warm punched through him, something that made John want to write it all down, to draw it, to sing it as loudly and hoarsely as he possibly could because how could people feel this way and stay fuckin’ _sane?_

John’s voice was rough when he said, “Are ye planning on forgetting?”

“I thought we’d do it everywhere we visit,” Paul replied, searching John’s expression. “A memento, you know. Just for us.”

 _I’m gone._ The thought was startlingly clear. He made himself think it again, weighing it on his tongue, _I’m gone,_ and he found himself smiling like a fool, mad for the bloke beside him, mad for whatever this was going to be, whatever they could _let_ it be.

“Yeah,” John said. “Alright.”

* * *

There were five people in the whole pub.

John and Paul sat on stools near the fireplace, guitars balanced on their knees, in sync as they tuned them. John assessed their audience in his peripheral vision, noting that the clientele of _The_ _Fox & Hounds _truly didn’t ran far beyond the agricultural social set. A couple of blokes he vaguely recognized from the other night, their voices carrying as they discussed the weather over pints. Mike was behind the bar cleaning glasses; he raised his eyebrows encouragingly when their eyes met.

“Christ,” John muttered, looking back at his guitar. “Paul, there’s no one fuckin’ here.”

Paul casually looked up to scan the room. His fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, tuning without looking. “It’s early,” he tried gamely. When he turned back to his guitar, he caught John’s flat expression and shot him a grin. “John Lennon: sulking. God forbid the day.”

“Call this sulking, son?” John quipped, sulking.

Paul blinked innocently at him. “As things go… yeah.”

“You’ve not seen me in a real temper, then.” Trying out a few chords, John straightened up and resettled on his stool. Outside the pub the rain continued to drizzle, making the world look like the most miserable grey watercolour known to man. They’d both decked out in leathers and had even scrounged up a tin of grease to use on their hair. Paul had hogged the mirror for ages until John had settled for coming up behind him and biting the side of his neck, which made Paul yell and try to thump him. Just thinking about it made him feel hot beneath the collar. Something must have entered his expression, because Paul bit the inside of his mouth, fighting down a smile.

“What?” he asked lowly.

“M’thinkin’ about someone,” John replied coolly, “who made me go out of me fuckin’ mind.”

Paul bit his lip. “Oughta get that seen to, Johnny.”

“S’bloody terrible,” John agreed. “The only cure, as it turns out, is a nice, hard s–”

Paul strummed loudly to cut him off. He stared at John, his pinks growing pink, a smile threatening his composure. John very much wanted to do something else – pressing their legs together, bumping their hands, maybe just mounting Paul on the fuckin’ floor like the animal he was – but one of the patrons coughed and John jerked away to yell, “Oi! Quiet in the house!”

Behind the counter, Mike rubbed his forehead.

Grinning broadly, John launched into a half-bar of _Stuck on You._ He played hard for a moment to warm up, then Paul cleared his throat beside him. Because he was a desperate bastard, John immediately looked at Paul. A smile was tucked into the corner of his mouth, that same mouth John had kissed not once but twice three times four maybe more, his dark eyes warm and soft in the low light of the pub. His hands were sure on his guitar, each shift resonating through John’s body as if they were linked.

Paul nodded his head subtly. He counted them in under his breath. The opening chords curled into the air, their voices raw without any drums or piano accompaniment, Paul looking out over their audience with unabated happiness. John sensed it, knew they all did. You couldn’t help it, when you saw Paul like this.

Midway through the set, Paul looked over at him and smiled.  

Whether it meant us or it meant now, John didn’t care; he couldn’t. For once in his sorry life, John felt uninhibited.

Like this could be something.

**Author's Note:**

> as always please do kudos, comment, et cetera let me know what you thought! thanks very much for reading. find me on tumblr @stonedlennon.


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